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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Shelf __,&.!£ ^ 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 




MISS GARDNER'S NOVELS. 



NEW EDITIONS, JUST PUBLISHED. 



1.— STOLEN WATERS—" Stolen Waters are Sweet.". $1X0 

2.— BROKEN DREAMS— A Novel in Verse 1.50 

3.— TESTED.— A Story of Woman's Constancy 1.50 

4.— RICH MED WAY'S TWO LOVES 1.50 

5.— A WOMAN'S WILES 1.50 

6.— TERRACE ROSES 1.50 

7.— COMPENSATION— A Story in Yerss— {New) 1.50 

All published uniform with this volume, and sent free by 
mail, on receipt of price, 

BY 

G. W. CAELETON & CO., Publishers, 
New York. 



COMPENSATION. 

A 

STUDY OF EXPERIENCE. 

BY 

CELIA E. GARDNER, 

AUTHOR OP 

" STOLEN "WATERS," "BROKEN DREAMS," "TERRACE ROSES," 

" A woman's wiles," "rich MEDWAT'S two LOVES," 

"EVERY INCH A KING," "TESTED," 

ETC., ETC. 



" A human spirit here records 

The annals of its human strife ; 
A human hand hath touched these chords ; 
This tale may all be idle words — 
But yet — it once was life. " 

Lord Lytton. 

" For one shall grasp, and one resign ; 
One drink life's rue, and one its wine ; 
And God shall make the balance good." 

J. G. Whittier. 



; V 



^f'r 



NEW YORK: 

Copyright, lS80,by 

G. IV. Carleton & Co., Publishers. 

LONDON : S. LOW, SON & CO. 

mdccclxxx. 



■QsCc 



l^^o 



Samuel Stodder, Trow 

Stereotypbr, Printing and Book-Binding Co. 

90 Ann Street, N. Y. N. Y. 



CONSECRATION. 

I work my work— all its results are Thine. «• 

I know the loyal deed becomes a fact 
Which Thou wilt deal with: nor will I repine 

Although I miss the value of the act. 
Thou carest for Thy creatures; and the end 

Thou seest. The world unto Thy hands I leave: 

And to Thy hands "—my work. 



DEDICATION 

TO 

H. H. 

Friend of my heart ! I've shut within these leaves 
Many a thought which Memory still weaves 

About thy name. 
And through this tale — not " idle words " the whole — • 
I still would speak to thee, as soul to soul. 

In words of flame. 
"Words that shall light anew the subtle fires 
Of sympathy, and long repressed desires. 

Which burn and glow 
Beneath the careless semblance that we keep ; 
And which shall span, with sudden, thrilling leap. 

The years' dull flow. 

I write of "dreams " which perished with the flowers ; 
And thou'lt recall one brief, sweet dream of ours 
That died like these. 

[vii] 



viii DEDICATION. 

I write of "drifting" down a summer stream ; 
And thou'lt remember days when we too seem 

O'er strange, bright seas 
T' have slowly floated with the hours' swift tide. 
Our oars thrown by, and whither we might glide 

Scarce caring aught, 
So that together we might linger still. 
Each bright, glad moment, as it sped, to fill 

With loving thought. 

I write of " life's deep problems " solved with pain ; 
And thou wilt think, with tender thrill again. 

Of sweet, still hours, 

Embalmed with flowers. 
Told off by heart-beats, counted by the light 
Of conscious eyes, and all too swift in flight. 

I write of " mem'ry ;" "hope ;" and " faith ;" and " praj'er 
Of hours of "waiting ;" hours of blank " despair ;" 

And "love's" mad thrall. 
For many a passion of the human heart 
Has in this idle tale of mine found part ; 

While through it all 
An undertone of meaning deep doth run ; 
But which shall speak, in language plain, to one 

Who reads my heart 

In everj' part. 



DEDICATION, 

And comprehends my scarcely uttered thought, 
As he doth read the book my pen hath wrought. 

And so in Ms kind hands my book I place I 
And o'er it he will bend the tender face 

I know so well ; 
And with his hand upon my pulse's beat, 
His heart will list the story, sad or sweet, 

Which each page tells. 
And memory to him shall softly breathe 
Of fair, dead hours, which he will sadly wreathe 

With immortelles. 

And asphodels. 

1879. k c. E. G. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Part First. — Time : Place : Persons 15 

Part Second. — Wine 70 

Part Third. — Rue 153 

Part Fourth.— Compensation 269 



PART FIRST. 
TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 



COMPENSATIOisr. 



PART FIRST. 

TIME : PLACE : PERSONS. 



'The world is wide ; but oh how sad 
It seems when I remembcx !" 



Night in the mountains ! Silent, dewy night; 
Sweet with the breath of pine, and blooming grape, 
And the aroma of a thousand flowers ; 
And peaceful as the far Acadian glades, 
Ere voice of man disturbed those primal shades. 

Night in the mountains ! Tier on tier they rise, 
Up-reaching eager and ambitious hands 

[15] 



16 TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 

To toucli the smiling heavens, that seem to bend 

With tender pity tow'rd the swaying earth. 

Wrapped in a filmy vail of evening mist, 

Their proud, majestic forms seem scarce more near. 

And not so real as yon swift-sailing cloud 

Flying before the fast pursuing moon. 

And, gazing on their outlines, dim and faint, 

I marvel if indeed 'twere true that I 

On this same morn stood on yon lofty peak, 

And gazed with rapture on the broad expanse 

Of mountain, valley, plain, and hilly slope. 

Which spread before, beneath me. Where are now 

The trees which shook their tender leaflets then 

In th' morning breeze, whose cool and balmy breath 

Was laden with the scent of res'nous pine, 

And aromatic fir, and pungent spruce, 

Caught with the kisses which it, passing, gave 

To that dark wood a hundred feet below ? 

Where are the giant oaks, that towered high ; 

The wide-spread maples, beech, and weeping elms ; 

The budding chestnuts, and the blooming limes — 

All wearing that luxuriant robe of green 

With which sweet Summer loves to deck the woods- 

And stretching kindly arms above our heads. 



TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 17 

To shield us from the rays of June's warm sun ? 

Where are the rocks, moss-covered, lichen-grown, 

Shielding, in many a cleft, from boisterous wind. 

The frail, yet hardy tufts of feathery fern. 

And piled so high, in massive, rough-hewn blocks — 

A grander throne than monarch ever owned ? 

Where is the silver stream, which pensively 

Flowed through the dim and silent wood, anon 

Broad'ning to placid pool, or limpid lake, 

Then dashing madly down the mountain-side, 

Foaming and roaring, in its stress of wrath. 

At each wild leap from beetling cliff to cliff ? 

Are they all there, behind the floating vail 

Of pale blue mist, in which the modest mounts 

Have wrapped themselves for sleep? or has some foe, 

With sudden onslaught, laid the fair trees low, 

Powdered the rocks, and drunk the streamlet up. 

And left the mighty mountains bald and bare, 

As in this dim, pale light they now appear? 

In morning's glow the truth will stand revealed, 

And show what now is by the mist concealed. 

Night in the mountains ! Still, and pure, and sweet, 
The evening breezes steal about us here. 



18 TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 

And in a dewy mantle wrap us close. 
We sit in silence in the broad, deep porch 
Of this most modest dwelling-place, which crests 
One lofty mount, and nestles at the feet 
Of others loftier still, and list the sounds 
Which, through the hush of night, float hitherward 
The whisp'ring leaves, coquetting with the breeze, 
Disturbing with their talk the weary birds. 
Which, cradled on the rocking boughs, protest, 
In sharp, shrill chirps, against their broken rest ; 
The roses, sighing forth their soft complaints, 
That night should hide their lovely faces thus 
From an admiring world ; the cheerful chirp 
Of cricket from some fav'rite nook ; the hoarse. 
Discordant croak of solemn frogs ; the song 
Of flowing brooklet, telling merry tales 
Of all the loveliness of spreading lake — 
Garnished with lilies, edged with bracken fine, 
O'ershadowed by the bending forest trees, 
And mirroring the sweet-faced briai'-roso, 
Far up the mountain whence it babbling flows. 

We are in shade; but full two hundred feet 
Beneath us, bathed in moonlight, silver-pale. 



TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 19 

A smiling valley like a picture sleejjs : 
With fertile fields and meadows ; groves of pine 
And hemlock, casting shadows black and weird 
Upon the moon-lit plains ; with here and there 
Huge clumps of lighter, tend'rei'-foliaged trees, 
And tow'ring hills, which from this altitude 
Seem but as swelling mounds on meadow breast ; 
And homesteads fair, engirdled 'round with trees, 
And gleaming white, touched by the moonbeam's glint ; 
And uplands, sloping high and higher still, 
Until at last they reach the feet of mounts. 
Which, tali and grim, like faithful sentries stand 
And shut the valley in on every hand. 

The scene is lovelier than pen can paint ! 
The play of light and shade, as silently 
The moon pursues her way, and shifts her place, 
Or hides a moment 'neath light-sailing clouds, 
No artist could transfix. And we who sit 
In this deep porch — with roses clustered o'er, 
And all the night air fragrant with their breath — 
Listen and gaze in silence. 

We are three: 
A man of business, snatching from the toil 



20 TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 

And turmoil of his busy daily round, 

A few sweet hours of perfect change and rest; 

Made sweeter by the dear companionship 

Of her who nestles closely at his side, 

Her sunny head upon his shoulder broad ; 

Of her with whom ho wanders hand in hand 

Through forest aisles, or climbs the rugged mounts, 

Or sits content beside some woodland fount. 

And dreams away the golden summer days — 

His lovely, orphaned daughter. Rare, indeed, 

To him, the busy man, are days like these. 

And nights on which God seems to set the seal 

And charm of perfect loveliness. These two. 

And I, a wearied author, seeking here 

Rest for an o'er-tasked frame, an o'er-wrought brain, 

Among the cool and dewy solitudes 

Of these fair mountain wilds. 

Aye, rest indeed 
I stand in need of finding ; for the year 
Has brought me only pain, and grief, and tears. 
Such as I suffered in the days long past, 
And hoped I thrust behind me evermore. 
And now again my life is passing sad ; 
Weary my heart ; ray dizzy brain perplexed ; 



TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 21 

For life's deep, complex problems vex me sore, 
And fill with deep unrest a soul once calm 
With quiet won from struggle and from pain. 
Many the lessons I have learned by heart ; 
Many the problems I have solved with toil ; 
Until from labor I had gained repose, 
And fancied it were lasting. Vain the tliought ! 
For now again, in Life's arithmetic, 
I find a problem I had once worked out 
To my full satisfaction. Puzzling then 
It was ; long were the hours I, wearied, bent 
Above the vexing sum ; but ah, at last 
The answer was obtained — I satisfied. 
And now once more the question intricate 
I've found upon life's open page, and want 
The pow'r to gain the answer. All in vain 
I add, subtract, divide, and multiply, 
Work out the sum by every process known 
To reas'ning mind — wrong is the answer still, 
And fails to satisfy mind, heart, or will. 

So, wearied with the constant strife of thought, 
The torluring question I could not resolve; 
The longings unfulfilled — unconquered, too ; 



23 TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 

Associations keeping fresh, unhealed, 

The wound my heart had suffered, here I came 

In Iiope of solace for sick heart and brain. 

Ah, vain, vain hope ! Not from myself can I, 

E'en here, one hour escape. Not from the thoughts, 

The pain, the strife, that make my life so sore, 

Can I shut out my heart, e'en in the wilds 

I love so well. And Memory, sometimes 

A friend, sometimes one's bitt'rest enemy. 

Hath hither followed ; keeping at my side 

With most unwelcome zeal ; and to my heart 

Repeating o'er and o'er tales of the past 

Which I would fain forget ; and whispering 

Those saddest of all words, " It might have been /" 

So, restless still, and still unsatisfied. 
Still sorrowful and sad, and sick at heart — 
At times rebellious too, that I again 
Must suffer pain once conquered to relief; 
And tired and listless for the want of hope, 
Which, on her bier, within ray heart lies dead, 
I pass in idleness the long, sweet days — 
Bitter to me they are, and full of pain — 
And long for night, that I perchance may find 



TIME: PLAGE: PERSONS. ! 

In .sleep's oblivion rest for tortured mind, 
And aching heart ; for Night to lay her hand 
Upon the lips. of gan-'lous Memory, 
And bid her hush her oft-repeated tales. 
But even Night too often proves unkind ; 
And sweet, coy sleep deserts my lowly bed ; 
And Mem'ry, in the silence and the hush. 
Speaks yet more loudly of the checkered past ; 
Till from my burning eyes the tears fall fast, 
And in the bitter anguish of the hour 
I long in turn for morning, from the pow'r 
Of my unwelcome friend to be set free. 
And for a space, if brief, from her to flee 

To-day I climbed yon lofty mountain peak, 
And in the rapture of the glorious view 
With which my eye was greeted, when I stood 
Upon the highest point, and turned to gaze 
Around, before, beneath me, I forgot 
For one I rief hour the pain that wrecks my life. 
For strong within me is the artist still. 
Though hushed to silence by the might of pain, 
And death of hope, without which hearts gi'ow sore. 
Returning, w^earied by the toilsome cUmb, 



24 TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 

And steep and rough descent, Sleep graciously 
My heavy eyelids touched with fingers soft, 
And gave me one more hour of respite sweet 
From strife of thought and sorrow's restless surge. 
And sitting hereto-night in evening's hush. 
Some of her calm has stolen in my heart, 
And stilled its throbbing pulse to even beat. 
And life seems good, though sadder far than sweet. 

But now the hush is broken by the roll 
Of wheels, the tramp of iron hoofs upon 
The toilsome road that winds through forest glooms 
And open spaces — whence the vale below. 
And proud, engirdling mountains, pale with mist, 
Illumined with the mystic moonlight's sheen, 
Is pictured sweetly to the gazer's eye — 
But ever upward, upward, to the top 
Of this steep mount, whose rugged, aged face 
Wears on its brow our lowly dwelling-place. 

It is not difficult to guess who comes 
At this late hour along th' upwinding road. 
We know the lumb'ring roll of those great wheels, 
The steady tramp of those iron shodden feet. 



TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 25 

And list to hear the notes of merry horn 
Float hitherward upon the sweet night air, 
With which, as in old days, the daily coach 
Importantly still heralds its approach. 

Waiting, I wonder idly what it brings. 
New guests, whose lives may for a little spaco 
Ruffle the surface of our idle days, 
And then, departing, lightly be forgot ? 
Kind messages from dear ones, now afar ? 
Tidings of him, for loving whom too well 
Self-exiled here I tarry ? Nay, ah, nay ! 
For this I cannot hope — I dream indeed ! 
However sweet were words penned by his hand, 
To me they must not come ; howe'er my heart 
May hunger for the kindly thought of his, 
It still must be denied ; between us two 
A " wall of bitter-sweet " its lofty height 
Doth rear, a barrier strong and stern as fate, 
The which we may not, must not, cannot cross. 
And so two lives are sore with sense of loss. 

Upon the clear and fragrant evening air. 

The horn's harsh notes are borne unto our ears, 
2 



26 TIME: PLACE: PERSOXS. 

Silvered by distance, caught \\\) as in play- 
By saucy echoes, and repeated o'er 
And o'er again, each time in softer tone. 
Until they die at last, as dies the faint 
Vibrations of the deep-toned, res'nant bell, 
Which from its outlook in some tall church tower. 
Tolls slowly, faithfully, each passing hour. 
And now we hear the crack of long-lashed whip ; 
The driver's jolly tones, as words of cheei 
He utters to his half-exhausted steeds ; 
And now, with sweep and flourish, learned by years 
Of constant practice, 'round yon bend of road 
The ancient stage-coach looms, and pompously 
Sweeps up before the door. 

All now is life ! 
Lights gleam from hall and parlor, chasing fast 
The still, dusk shadows from the open porch 
Wherein we sit ; and in the doorway near. 
Good Mrs. Brown, with hands upon her hips, 
Stands smilingly, and waits what is to come. 
Sweet Sylvie Mayne, aroused from happy dreams. 
Which, waking or asleep, come sweet to her, 
Raises her head from off the shoulder broad 
Where it of late has rested, and with yawns 



TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 27 

Half forced, half stifled, wonders who lias come 

To join our party in these distant woods ; 

And hopes, whoe'er they may be, they may prove 

As nice as those already here ; then laughs 

At the conceit her careless words display, 

And crossing o'er to me, leans on my chair, 

And, curious, awaits the answer there. 

And soon the vehicle before the door 
Yields up its living freight, and in our midst 
Three strangers for a welcome waiting stand. 
Foremost, a man of scarcely middle age, 
Tall, dark, and proud, but with a pleasant face, 
And easy air that speaks of culture broad. 
Beside, and clinging wearily to him, 
A blue-eyed woman, drooping with fatigue, 
And in the rear, a fair-faced, slender girl. 
I only note her eyes are dark as night. 
And that her cheek is round with youth and health, 
And then, with words of welcome on her lips, 
Good Mrs. Brown has led the strangers in, 
And we are left again, sole occupants 
Of this broad porch, and all its dusky gloom, 
Scarce reached, as yet, by yon slow-creeping moon. 



28 TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 

The lumbering coach, already on its way, 
Throws back the sound of its departing wheels. 
Each moment growing fainter to the ear ; 
The frogs croak hoarsely from some distant pool. 
In one unvarying note of dreary sound ; 
O'erhead, the roses in the rising wind 
Toss restlessly, and shake their fragrant robes. 
Wet with the dews of night, till all the air 
Is breathed anew with sweetness ; and the brook, 
Scarce fifty feet away, still murmurs soft 
The story of its journey "through the meads, 
Its daring leaps adovvn the m.ountain side, 
Its run through spicy woods and by the mill — 
And makes the night and silence seem more still. 

Back to the past my thoughts are drifting fast, 
"When from yon lighted room a sweet, low laugh 
Falls on my ear, and to my sense conveys 
A pleasure vague ; so eloquent it is 
Of care-free youth, and of a heart untouched 
By sad experience of grief and pain ; 
So plainly speaks a nature sweet and sound. 
Healthful in tone, and merry in its mood. 
And as, a second time, its cadence sweet 



TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 29 

Blends with the outer sounds, I feel my heart 
Grow strangely warm and tender to the girl 
Whose fair; sweet face I scarcely yet have seen ; 
To her who, in her merry innocence, 
Contrasts so strongly with my weary self, 
And brings again the days — oh, how long past ! 
When I was young, and gay, and glad like hei* ; 
Ere life's experience had taught my heart 
Life's deeper meanings ; and that happiness, 
Although so coveted, so mourned its loss, 
Is, as an educator of the soul 
In what is highest, truest, noblest, best, 
In what shall fit us for life's sternest tests, 
Of far less pow'r than sorrow's dreaded fire. 
Which, while it teaches, lifts the spirit higher. 

And yet, one envies careless youth, which gives 
To every day the color of the rose — 
Its odor too — and knows not, or forgets, 
That all the bloom which makes life's June so fair, 
Hides many a thorn which autumn winds shall bare. 
Yet who forbears to pluck the roses sweet 
Because of hidden thorns which one may meet ? 



30 TIME: PLAGE: PERS0X8. 

Who will not say their fragrance compensates 
For all the pain the piercing thorn creates? 

"Well, shall we like them?" Sylvie's low-toned 

voice 
From where she careless stands my chair behind, 
Brings back from thoughts like these my waud'ring 

mind. 

" How can I tell, xny child ?" I, smiling, ask. 
"Can one brief glance suflice to demonstrate 
Whom we sliall like, and whom perhaps shall hate ?" 

"Ah, yes — sometimes — have you ne'er proved it true ? 
Some at first sight send all my being through 
A thrill of pleasure, and I then can tell 
That I shall love them tenderly and well ; 
Yet others — ugh ! their faces strike a chill 
Straight to my heart; and so I turn away, 
And — well, detest them, to my dying day." 

"Which yet is distant far, I trust, ray child ! 
So how can you be sure dislikes you build 
On such foundation shall so loner endure ? 



TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 31 

Are you so wise that you with certainty 

Can say what shall be in the years to come ? 

You yield to impulse like the child you are. 

Think, Sylvie ! is it right, or just, or fair. 

To judge with such unkindness one of whom 

You nothing know, and who perchance you've seen 

In an unhappy moment ? to conclude. 

With youth's most hasty judgment, that because 

A face at first repels, it has no pow'r 

You to attract seen in a happier hour ? " 

"Not just, not kind perhaps, and yet — ah, well, 
I cannot help it. Some I dearly love, 
And others have no pleasantness to me. 
It may be wrong, but so I'm made, you see." 

"Ah, child, that is indeed a poor, poor plea. 
I'm made with temper that strikes sudden fire 
As lightest touch of flint to tempered steel. 
Shall I then make no effort to control 
This weakness of my nature ? will the plea 
That I like this was made, avail for me 
If I in yielding to it take a life ? 
I look within my heart, and there I find 



33 TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 

Envy and pride, two monsters we should hate, 
Have corae to dwell, and now predominate 
O'er all the virtues which therein abide ; 
Shall I to these pay court, and these obey, 
Because they fain within my heart would stay ? 
Because by me unbidden they are there ? 
And if to their dictation I shall yield. 
And wrong and wound my friend, will he forgive, 
Because, forsooth, the monsters are inborn ? 
Our faults ai'e given to us to overcome. 
The greater be the fault, the richer, too. 
The victory will prove when once attained ; 
The sharper be the strife, the more complete 
And sweeter will the conquest be when gained. 
We all have those we love, and, as you say. 
Those who to us no pleasantness can have. 
Nor would I say, my dear, that this is wrong. 
By sympathy, or contrast, some attract ; 
And some repel by want of harmony 
Between their souls and ours ; and thus it is 
Their presence is to us like jarring notes 
Upon an untuned instrument, to ears 
Refined by culture ; some by force of strong 
Magnetic power draw our hearts to theirs, 



TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 33 

And we are glad and happy in their love ; 

And others yet, by that mysterious sense 

Qf physical repulsion, most have felt, 

And none, I think, has ever quite explained, 

Seem so i-epngnant to us, that we find, 

However much we may respect, esteem. 

And honor them — however true, and good, 

And worthy of affection they may be. 

Our hearts can hold no fellowship with theirs. 

But ere we shut out any from our love, 

Or any all unknown, unheard, condemn 

To bear our detestation, let us prove 

That they are all unworthy, or their hearts 

Have not been tuned to harmony with ours. 

Believe me, Sylvie, not to you alone 

I give this counsel, but myself as well ; 

For I, like you, am all too quick to judge. 

Too quick to blame, no less than to approve, 

And readier to dislike; I fear, than love. 

Not many can I take within ray heart, 

But once inside the portals, they are held 

As something dearer than all else on earth ; 

And though 'tis true that faces index oft 

The mind and character ; that practiced ones 
2* 



34 TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 

May read them as one reads an open book, 

Still you, I think, dear girl, are yet too young 

In that lore to be skilled ; and should not trust 

Blindly to impulse in your choice of friends, 

But study such as you would love, and base 

Your confidence on sterling qualities 

Of mind and heart — and prove that you are wise. 

See what a long and tiresome homily 

Your question has evoked ! But now, ray dear, 

Since you at sight have pow'r to demonstrate 

Whom you shall like, and whom for life shall hate, 

I leave j^our query open, and suggest 

You answer it yourself — you must know best." 

She laughed, and stooping, lightly kissed my cheek. 
" Nay, since vay hasty judgment you have shamed, 
I will not say, but test them by their acts ; 
And let them win my liking if they can 
'By sterling qualities of mind and heart.' 
Thanks for your counsel," — and her voice dropped low. 
" That I am ruled by impulse well I know, 
And far too often have it to regret. 
What you have said I shall not soon forget. 
Thanks, and good-night ! Those folks are eating yet, 



TIME: PLACE: PERSONS, 

Let's hope they've good digestion. Papa there 

Is fast asleep in that old crazy chair, 

I do believe ! he'll take his death of cold 

In this chill air. Now see how I can scold." 

With this the merry maiden left my side, 
And bending o'er her father, loved so well, 
Slipped one Avhite arm beneath his drooping head. 
And wakened him with kisses. "Papa, dear, 
'Tis growing late !" she said. " The air is damp ; 
You must not slumber here, or 1 sliall learn 
Too soon the art of nursing, I'm afraid. 
Upstairs I saw to-day a downy bed. 
Stuffed full with feathers. Find it, sleepy-head !" 

" Is that the wa}^ you scold ?" I smiling asked. 
" I doubt not that your father will declare 
'Tis rather pleasant to be scolded thus ; 
To be awakened from so brief repose 
By lips that have the freshness of the rose, 
By arms that rival winter's purest snows. 
And words more tender than they are unkind. 
It 'minds me of yon brooklet's silver tones, 
Fretting its way in music o'er the stones 



36 TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 

Which do so little to obstruct its flow. 
I find it pleasant, 'tis so soft and low." 

" Oh, I can scold — you do not know as yet. 
You'll see sometime how I can fume and fret." 

" Indeed she will !" this from her father's lips. 
Silenced by press of saucy finger tips. 

"Now, papa, hush !" she said. " Or you, in turn, 
My pow'rs in that direction soon may learn." 

" I do not need to, child, I know them well. 
As my submission to your whims may tell," 

" Ah, papa, hush !" she pouted. " Don't you see 
I wish to keejD my ci-edit good with her 
For sweetness r That I would not have her know 
The brook that ripples softly o'er the stones. 
And feigns to scold in voice so sweet and low 
Out yonder, speaks in loud and angry tones 
Where high-piled rocks obstruct its gentle flow ? 
You're shiv'ring, papa ! Come ! 'tis time, indeed 



TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 37 

You to my bidding paid a little heed. 
I wish to get him safely off, you see, 
Ere he reveal too much !" this last to rae. 

With playful force she dragged him from his seat, 
And slipped her arm in his to lead him in, 
And so make sure her mandate was obeyed. 
"What would he do," the sweet witch laughing said, 
As by my chair they paused to say good-night. 
" What would he do without his daughter's care ? 
He would have slept in that old straight-backed chair. 
The careless man ! here in the chill and dew. 
Had I not wakened him, the whole night through, 
Nor once have guessed he was not safe at rest 
On that huge heap of feathers overhead. 
Which our good hostess designates a bed. 
And then the consequence no doubt had been 
To us the spoiling of these lovely days. 
And lovelier nights ; so, papa, give rae praise 
That I have saved 3^ou from a horrid cold, 
Though I to do it almost proved a scold." 

He laughed, and stroked her head with tender pride, 
Then either said good-night and went inside. 



38 TI^IE: PLACE: PERSONS. 

I followed soon ; the night had grown more chill ; 
The dew lay heavy on the grass and flowers ; 
The rising; wind beeran to sigh and moan 
Around the porch where now I sat alone, 
A gloomy cadence in its softest tone, 
Which struck within my heart an an.sw'ring chord, 
And made my jjulsc beat painfully and hard. 
So gath'ring up the book Avhose glowing words 
Had held my thought till Twilight laid her hand 
Upon the i^age, I sought my room, to find 
Perchance a brief repose for heart and mind. 
And Sleep, sweet Sleep, drew kindly near to rae, 
And as a mother soothes her babe to rest. 
Hushed all my pain upon her gentle breast. 



II. 



" A pure, transparent, pale and radiant face, 
Like to a li2;hted alabaster vase.'' 



Morn in the mountains ! With her breath of balm, 
And cool, sweet face washed clean in morning dew. 
The Dawn comes smiling from the couch of Night, 



TIME: PLAGE; PERSONS. 39 

And looks expectant on the sleeping world. 
But all is dim and faint. The weary moon 
An hoar since laid her queenly head upon 
The mountain's crest, and sank to her repose ; 
And though the faithful stars their tiny lamps 
Still hang all o'er the high-arched dome of heaven. 
Their little light is all too faint to show 
Aught save the outlines of the scene below. 

But, cool and patient still, the Dawn awaits 
The revelation which she knows shall be. 
And broader, broader steadily becomes 
The band of pearly white wliicli girds the east ; 
And faster, faster spreads the pale gray light 
Which in her hand she brings, until its glow 
Has reached the dusky shadows far below, 
And piercing them, reveals, by slow degi'ees 
Mounts, valleys, hills, towns, cities, rivers, seas, 
Until the fair and patient Dawn beholds 
A continent, engirdled by the arms 
Of two broad oceans ; and, oh sight most sweet ! 
The Western AVorld lies silent at her feet ! 

Morn in the mountains ! Now to action springs 
The quiet Dawn, and to the breezes flings 



40 TIME: PLAGE: PERSONS. 

Her violet banners edged with burnished gold, 
In honor of the fast approaching sun ; — 
That haughty king who loves the pageantry, 
The glitter and the pomp of royal state ; 
Who loves to deck himself in dazzling robes 
Woven of many hues, and, angry, hides 
Sometimes a whole long day his brilliant face 
Behind a thick gray vail, because, forsooth. 
The servile Dawn has failed to welcome him 
With that display he loves. The timid stars 
Put out their flick'ring candles, and, abashed, 
Shrink from the glory of his kingly face. 
And, trembling, hide from view. Lavish of dye. 
The artist Morn the whole horizon paints 
In richest hues, blending the lovely tints 
Of gold and scarlet, crimson, rose, and blue. 
With rarest skill, till all the orient sky 
Is one rich flush of color ; and ere long. 
As silently as came the quiet Dawn, 
The Sun's bright car rolls up the gold-paved way, 
And bursts in brilliance on the dazzled day. 

Morn in the mountains ! Swiftly change on change 
Sweeps o'er the lower world, as higher still 



TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 41 

The Sun's triumphal chariot proudly rolls. 

Swift shafts of rosy light thrown on the crests 

Of tallest mountains, dye the filmy robes 

They still are wearing with the faintest tints 

Of pink and crimson, till they lift their heads, 

And, throwing off the half translucent vails. 

Stand glorified, and crowned with amber light. 

The brilliant hues of scarlet, ruby, pearl. 

With which the east was lately all aflush. 

Have been wiped out, and only gold remains, 

Forming a dazzling halo 'round the brow 

Of yon proud monarch of the op'ning day. 

But see ! still lower down the mountain side, 

Swift creeps the radiant sheen ; and higher lifts 

Each moment now the blue, illumined mist, 

Until at last each tree and hoary rock. 

The whole night hidden, touched with shafts of light, 

Stands out in bold relief — so clear and pure 

The atmosphere of this sweet summer morn. 

And now the valley, hitherto in shade, 

Receives the greeting of the royal god, 

And glows with added beauty ; and the play 

Of light with flick'ring shadow has begun ; — 

Shadows so changeful, delicate, and deep. 



42 TIME: PLACE: PERSON'S. 

Tiiey give the pictured valley life and tone, ' 
Which, wanting them, had been but tame, we own. 

With day's rich liglit has come its music," too. 
The birds, awakened by the spreading dawn, 
Twitter, and chirp, and sliake their feathered robes ; 
Then from each tiny swelling throat bursts forth 
A gush of sweetest melody, so glad. 
And clear, and free, so true to highest art, 
It thrills with ecstasy the hearer's heart. 
The fowls less musically show their joy 
At day's return, by pompous crow and cluck ; 
The cows come lowing to the meadow bars, 
And wait, impatient, for the milker's baud ; 
A thousand insects wake to active life, 
And soon begin their daily buzz and hum ; 
And from the vale below, a cheerful shout 
Of boyish glee ; or call of laborer 
To plodding, patient ox ; or sharp report 
Of eager sportsman's rifle, now and then, 
As day advances, up the mountain floats, 
Repeated by the echo's saucy notes. 

I stood this morning on the rose-wreathed porch, 
Where late last eve I sat, and gazed abroad 



TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 43 

Upon the lovely picture, when the girl 

Whose pleasant laughter then had stirred my heart 

With interest, whose fair and sweet-lined face 

I had this morning studied with delight, 

Approaching fi-om behind, half timidly 

Paused at my side. I turned and looked at her, 

And meeting her uplifted eyes, I smiled. 

How much of happiness, I tliought, must lie 

In those unclouded depths ! how deep the well 

Of tenderness and passion, hid within 

The soul whose windows are so clear and bright ! 

In truth, her face is rarely sweet and fine ; 

Full of all womanly, all modest grace ; 

Of all rich possibilities, all pure 

And tender impulses, and loving thoughts ; 

Of sensibilities most delicate ; 

And rare, innate refinements. Piquant, too. 

And spirited, and bright with youth and joy. 

In outline purest oval ; and in hue 

A clear, dark paleness, lighted, as I said, 

By deep, soft eyes, unclouded by a shade ; 

Made sweeter by a pouting, tender mouth ; 

And crowned by dusky lengths of silken hair, 

Dressed in the graceful fashion of the day. 



44 TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 

A slender form, but round and plump as well. 

A voice well modulated in its tone, 

And hands an empress might be proud to own. 

Her name is Constance, and it suits her well. 

She is not beautiful, but, better yet. 

Is lovely. Does not dazzle one, but wins. 

And so I took her straightway in my heart, 

With an impulsiveness as great as that 

I had reproved in Sylvie yester-eve, 

And loved her well at once. And I believe 

More than I give from her I shall receive. 

So when this morning at my side she paused, 
I asked, as in her upturned face I smiled : 
"Is this your primal visit to these wilds ?" 

" Oh, yes !" she said. " I have not been before 
So deep among the mountains and the woods. 
Is it not lovely here ? that wondrous view ! 
So fresh and sweet this morning air is, too !" 

" Yes, it is lovely ; look where'er you will, 
The world, as seen from here, is beautiful. 
How soft and tender are those shades of green, 



TIME; PLACE: PERSONS. 45 

In which the trees are drest ! How rich and smooth 
Those meadows, waiting for the mower's scythe, 
Sparkling with diamond drops touched by the sun, 
And cased in em'rald settings ! And how deep, 
Yet delicate, the blue that roofs the world ! 
Yes, it is lovely, lovely ! all the scene ! 
At morn, at noon — and fairer still at night, 
Seen by the pale moon's shimra'ring flow of light." 

" Ah, is it not ! I thought, as we last eve 
Toiled slowly up that almost endless road, 
I never in my life saw aught so fair 
As those brief glimpses of the vale below, 
Lying so silent in that silver glow, 
And all around it the embracing mounts. 
And then the deep, dark woods, through which we rode! 
But fragrant with the spicy scent of pines, 
And partially illumined, too, at times. 
Making the darkness visible. I own 
I shivered sometimes with a nameless fear, 
The sound of tossing branches seemed so drear, 
And so intensely deep the forest's gloom. 
But still I felt, for all, the lovely view. 
Which now and then before us lay revealed, 



46 TIME: PLAGE: PERSONS. 

Could compensate for all ray weariness, 
And for my foolish, causeless fears, no less." 

"Your words recall the thought which filled ray 
raind, 
Just ere you joined me," said I, as she paused. 
"How raodest Nature hides her fairest scenes 
Far f rora the haunts of raen ; and e'er reserves , 
Her sweetest nooks, her grandest, widest views, 
And her most rare surprises, for the eyes 
Of such as search among her hidden things, 
And clirab with toil her steepest, roughest paths, 
And linger longest in her wildest haunts. 
What lovely wild-wood flowers, and curious plants " — 

Iljansed abruptly, as a deeper thought 
Flashed in my mind ; and Sylvie, who had come 
Without as I was speaking, and now sat 
Upon the low broad step just at my feet. 
Exclaimed with playfulness : "Ah, tell it us ! 
I see a lovely thouglit within your eyes. 
And though it may be all too grand and wise 
For our poor comprehensions, give it, pray ! 
Perhaps — who knows? — 'twill not be tlirown away." 



TIME: PLAGE: PERSONS. 47 

"My eyes tell tales, I am afraid," I said, 
"Or you are wondrous sharp. 'Tis true, indeed, 
A deeper thought o'crtook tiie surface one, 
Which I just then was trying to exprest-^. 
And thrust it from its place. The thought was this : 
That just as nature spreads her fairest scenes, 
Not for the many, but the few ; and yields 
To sucli as search along her wildest paths 
Her richest treasures ; so God hides as well 
His rarest and most precious gifts to man. 
Far from the common sight ; and so He keeps 
His grandest, widest outlooks ; His most sweet 
And rare surprises ; and the deep and rich 
Revealings of Himself, His jjurpose, will. 
Not for the mass, but for the few grand souls 
Who search among His deep and hidden things, 
Who climb with toil His steepest, roughest paths, 
And linger longest in His Holy Place. 
To these he gives unsparingly His grace." 

I paused. The girls were silent, too, and seemed 
My words to ponder. Constance gazed afar, 
A dreamy look within her soft dark eyes, 
Her fair, pale face grave with unusual thought. 



48 TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 

And Sylvie, though her eyes were on my face, 

Seemed meditating, too. At last she said : 

" The thought is good and grand. Thanks for its gift ! 

Perhaps, too, as I said, it may not be 

Quite thrown away, though giv'n to us alone. 

Now will you finish that, the surface one, 

Which to express you only had begun ?" 

" I do not now recall — 'twas this, I think : 
That often, in the heart of deepest woods. 
Scarce ever visited by foot of man, 
One finds the loveliest flow'rs, the finest ferns, 
Plants veined with delicacy exquisite. 
And groujjed by Nature with most perfect art ; 
Rich, blooming vines, festooned from tree to tree, 
With a wild grace no training could impi'ove ; 
Vistas so lovely one is stricken dumb. 
And with a breathless pleasure gazes long ; 
And then the mosses, spread with lavishness. 
And in variety bewildering, 
Beneath the feet, on rock and tree and shrub — 
The softest mosses on the roughest rocks. 
The finest lichens cov'ring tenderly 
The moldering remains of some great tree, 



TIME: PLAGE: PERSONS. 49 

Once tow'ring high in pomp and pride of life, 

The sweet, rich sap in every tiny twig, 

But, now, stripped of its verdure, stricken, dead. 

Fast crumbling back to dust, from whence it sprung. 

And this will serve to point what I to you 

Last eve was saying, dear : That you, pei'chance, 

By closer observation of a face 

"Which first may have repelled you, will have found 

It has its finer phases ; and may learn 

That in the soul of one you had disliked 

The richest virtues dwell ; and so you think 

No more of what repelled, but yield respect, 

And honor, if not love — as you forget 

The roughness of the rock, and but admire 

Its garnishing of finest, softest moss 

'Twill teach you, too, it is not always wise 

To trust to impulse. Reason is a gift 

Bestowed alone upon the race of man ; 

And that should be our guide. That, and the true 

And lofty type of Christian love, which we, 

Alas, so rarely in its fullness see — 

That greatest of all graces. Charity T 

The girls seemed thoughtful still. But Constance 
said, a 



50 TIME: PLAGE; PERSONS. 

After brief pause : " Ah, who hath Charity !" 
And Sylvie, with a shrug : " Not I, at least ! 
As was most plainly proven yester-eve, 
By our good friend here." — Smiling in ray face 
As thus she spoke. 

" Not many have the grace 
In fullest measure, truly !" answered I. 
"Though many to possess it daily seek — 
So frail is poor humanity, and weak. 
Were all, or even they who bear the name 
Of Christian, earnestly to shape their lives 
By those few words which from the earnest lips 
Of Paul the Matchless fell, far different 
Our selfish world would speedily become. 
For ' Charity doth suffer long — is kind ; 
Doth envy not, and vaunteth not itself, 
Nor is puffed up ; unseemly doth not act ; 
Her own seeks not ; with ease is not provoked ;' 
And, still more rare than all, ' 7io evil thinks ; 
All things it beareth ; all things doth believe ; 
All things it hopeth ; all things doth endure ; 
This grace possessed doth never fail the heart, 
But to the end abides.' Apply this test 
Not" only to the widespread Christian world, 



TIME: PLAGE: PERSONS. 51 

But to our own weak hearts as well, and we 
Exclaim with Constance, * Who hath charity ' !" 

" Well, ladies, whither bears our course to-day ?" 
Thus Mr. Mayne, who joined us where we stood, 
And broke in on our contemplative mood 
With hearty, cheery tones, which to one's mind 
Suggests the man's true nature, deep and kind. 

" Ah, up the mountain to that lovely lake !" 
His daughter answered, springing to her feet. 
"Miss Disbrow has not seen it, and no spot 
In all these lovely wilds is half so sweet. 
We'll beg some goodies from kind Mrs. Brown, 
And gather sweet wild berries as we go ; 
And you shall bring us, from those crystal deeps 
Where tangled lily-stems luxuriant grow. 
Some speckled ti'out to make our feast complete ; 
And cook them also, if you like. We'll stay 
In that delightful spot the whole long day. 
If so it pleases you. What do you say ?" 

The plan which Sylvie hastened to present 
Seemed pleasant to us, and we gave asseni. 



63 TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 

" Well, to the lake, then, if you're all agreed !" 
Said Mr. Mayne. " Will half an hour suffice 
To do your coaxing, pet, and prinking, too ? 
By then the sunlight will have drank the dew, 
And gathered fire enough our backs to broil, 
As up the mountain paths we slowly toil." 

"Ah, then we'll have broiled venison and lamb 
To grace our feast, without the trouble, too. 
Of cooking ;" saucy Sylvie made reply. 
"You are a dear, you know, and lambs are we. 
White, meek, and innocent, as lambs should be." 

She crossed her hands in meekness on her breast, 
The roguish girl, and tried her very best 
To look the character she thus had claimed ; 
Succeeding but in looking what she is, 
A mischievous and saucy child. A kiss 
From tender lips fell on the rosy cheek. 
And with his hearty laugh her father said : 
" I'll take a piece from here ! I have no doubt 
I'll find it most delicious to the taste. 
Now, run away, my lamb, and make all haste 



TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 53 

To dress yourself for roasting in the sun. 

I like, when Iamb is served, it be well done." 

He laughed again, and left us. And we too 
Retired to don more suitable attire 
For climbing hills and threading woodland paths, 
Than our light moi'ning garments. In good time 
We gathered in the porch, and thence set out 
Upon our toilsome but most pleasant walk, 
Up hills, upon whose sunny southern slopes 
The sweet wild strawb'ries turned their blushing cheeks 
To meet the kisses of the morning sun ; 
O'er meadow-turf, like velvet to the feet, 
Through which the purling brooklet gayly runs ; 
Through dusky woods, sweet-smelling, breezy, cool ; 
Until at last we reached the silver pool. 
Which was the object of our labored quest, 
And on its banks, fatigued, sat down to rest. 

Ah ! it was lovely as an artist's dream ! 
O'erhead tall, solemn pines their branches tost 
In th' gentle breeze, and gave the air we breathed 
A healthful, pungent odor ; filtered through 
The tracery of plumy branches, fell 



54 TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 

With softened glow, the morning sunlight's gold, 

Resting on groups of graceful, feath'ry ferns. 

And touching here and there some wild-wood flowers, 

So delicate and modest, if in shade 

We had, perhaps, unnoticed passed it by ; 

Rocks great and small, and cushioned deep with moss. 

Lay all around ; wild roses, pink with bloom, 

And odorous sweet-briar, also flushed 

With crimson blossoms, added to the scene 

Touches of color exquisite ; beneath 

Our feet, o'er spreading beds of mosses soft. 

Crept the dark leaves of checkerberry vines. 

Dropped thick with deep red balls, and intermixed 

With spicy wintergreens, still young and sweet ; 

Frost grapes, scarce out of bloom, climbed gracefully 

The sturdy tree-trunks, from the branches high 

Their juicy tendrils throwing to the breeze ; 

And many another vine, and curious plant. 

Whose names we did not know, and could not guess, 

Was grouped and trailed around us everywhere ; 

The lake, tree-girdled, bearing on its breast 

Rich store of fragrant lilies, spread before. 

And broke in golden ripples here and there. 

As soft the sunlight on its bosom dropped ; 



TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 55 

And far, far overhead the peerless blue, 

Frescoed with foliage, looked the tree-tops through. 

" Ah, this is nice ! " said Sylvie, as she laid 
Her head against her father's arm, and fanned 
Her warm cheeks with her hat. " Oh, papa, dear, 
I'm roasted to a turn ! jow need not fear 
Your lamb is underdone. Still, I persist, 
I'm rare as well ; now, papa, am I not ? 
Has aught more rare than I f all'n to your lot ? " 

She looked up in his face, her loving eyes 
As blue as were th' exquisite summer skies. 
What wonder that his face was full of pride. 
And that he drew her closer to his side, 
As, bending to her cheek, he answered low ; 
" The rarest lambkin God e'er made, I know ! " 

"How passing lovely!" Constance murmured soft. 
As by my side she sat, and gazed around 
Upon the scene she had not viewed ere this. 
" These trees ! these ferns and mosses ! and the lake — 
How clear, and still, and smooth ! Oh, for a boat. 
To gather those sweet lilies where they float ! 



56 TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 

How all reminds me of your M'ords this morn. 
That Nature hides her very loveliest thiugs 
Deep in the heart of woods, which, would one view, 
One should not fear the toilsome climb thereto." 

" Yes ! e'en those lilies, simple as they are — 
And beautiful as well — are quite beyond 
The reach of careless fingers. Would one grasp 
Their od'rous beauty, one must wade far out, 
Regardless of the flags, and tall, rough sedge, 
And ferns, and rushes harsh, that fringe the edge." 

" Regardless, too, of monstrous, green-backed frogs j 
And turtles snapping at your dainty toes ; 
And snakes and lizards lurking in the flags ; 
And spiral lily-stems, which, coiling close 
Each 'round the other, trip your wary feet, 
Till — splash ! you drop into the lake's moist arms, 
And lay your cheek beside the lilies pale. 
Thanks ! but I think not e'en those flow'ry charms, 
Bewitching as they are, could e'er avail 
To tempt me the experiment to try." 
Thus Sylvia, with laughing lip and eye. 



• TIME; PLACE: PERSONS. 57 

" Alas for poetry wben sJie is by !" 
I said to Constance, "She will not forget 
Life's realism, nor will overlook — 
The naughty girl ! — whate'er of ludicrous 
The loftiest sentiment may underlie. 
She turns to ridicule whate'er we say. 
We will not waste our pretty thoughts on her, 
Nor in her presence sentimentalize, 
Who laughs at all our fancies, grave or wise." 

The hours sped by and brought the warm-breathed 
noon. 
And I and Constance, who had wandered off, 
Each her own way, within the wood's deep heart, 
Were thence recalled by voice of song, which, clear 
As note of silver I3ipe, rang through the trees. 
And floated faintly, sweetly, to our ear : 
" Come, come, oh, come ! the dinner waits for thee ! 
Come, come, oh, come ! haste hitherward and see 
The dainty banquet here prepared for thee. 
Or thou shalt hear, sad as the voice of fate. 
Too late ! too late ! for dining thou'rt too late ! 
Too late ! too late ! haste ere thou art too late !" 
3* 



58 TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 

" Too late ! too late !" the echoes faint repeat. 
Thus breaks the song, with accent clear and sweet, 
Soft on the silver tide of revery, 
O'er which I've drifted to the Past's wide sea, 
And backward to the Present floats my thought. 
I sigh — and smile, as, by the vibrant air 
Caught and retained, the song to me is brought. 
And dropped upon my sense ; then hasten where 
Is spread the meal our coming doth await. 
Lest I be greeted with the dread " too late !" 

A " dainty " and unique repast, forsooth, 
Is spread beside the clear and limpid lake. 
And dainty fingers, with their touches soft, 
A poem of it have essayed to make. 
Around a pyramid of biscuit light, 
Whose parted lips reveal the pink-veined tongue 
Their flaky mouths shut in, are trailed the leaves 
And scarlet balls of checkerberry vines ; 
And plates of crisp brown cakes a briJliant spray 
Of crimson-bloomed sweet-briar graceful twines ; 
Wild strawb'ries blush within a wreath of fern ; 
And in a lovely garland, deftly wove 
Of wild pink roses, and of daisies white, 



■ TIME: PLAGE: PERSONS, 59 

Lie spotted trout, browned richly to a turn, 
And with the spicy wintergreen bedight ; 
Beside each plate, a lily, pale and sweet, 
Breathes fragrant greeting as we take our seat 
Upon the mossy divan, circling round 
Our low-spread table on the level ground. 

Sweet Sylvia, with roses in her hair. 
In belt, on breast, and blushing in her cheeks ; 
Whose hands have spread and garnished our repast ; 
Whose merry song has called us to the feast. 
Plays hostess to us three, her honored guests. 
And we discuss the viands she has spread ; 
And chat, and toy with blossoms she has culled ; 
And watch the smiles and dimples come and go 
On her fair cheek ; and list the ripples low 
Of laughter from her lips ; the sparkling flow 
Of saucy repartee which quick replies 
To all we say, or merry, grave, or wise ; 
And let the hour glide by, fast as it will. 
So talk, so listen, feeding every sense. 
Till — hark ! a sharp report — and sharper shriek 
From Sylvia and Constance — breaks the hush 
Which broods in these deep woods, and startles each 



60 TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 

To paleness with its suddenness of sound. 

And then we hear a rustling, and a rush 

Through leafy branches ; and with light, swift bound, 

A slender, graceful hound springs into sight, 

And seeing us, barks with a quick delight. 

Each at the other gaze we with surprise ; 
And as I meet the glance of Constance' eyes, 
Which turn from me upon the panting hound, 
I note a sudden flash of consciousness 
Light in their soft, dark depths ; a sudden flush 
Flame faintly into rose upon her cheek. 
And then with curious half-smile, she says : 
" ^3T — ^yP — ^^y ^*^yP • " ^^^^ yi^Wa a joyful bound 
Of recognition, close beside her springs 
The dog, upon her shoulder lifts its paws, 
And mute, but glad, caresses her soft cheek. 
The rose-tint deepens faintly, as the girl 
With low, but conscious laugh bends o'er the hound. 
And strokes its sleek head with her fingers white. 
The dog responding with a dog's delight. 

It is not difficult for one to guess 
That in the past lie buried sunny days 



■ TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 61 

Which these have shared — which each remembers yet. 
And, wondering, I say : " It seems you two 
Have met before — are olden friends, indeed, 
If to this recognition one gives heed." 

" Yes, we have met before ! eh. Gyp ? good Gyp ! " 
She answers, with another low soft laug^h : 
But of its master asks the dog no word ; 
Though one may guess that he is in her thought, 
As with a deeper consciousness is stirred 
Her lovely face, when once again is caught 
The sound of springing branches, and we hear 
A brisk and manly footstep drawing near. 

The dog bounds back to whence proceed the sounds; 
Is lost to view a moment — then appears, 
Her master introducing as he comes. 
With short, sharp barks of i^leasure. Curious 
To see the man whose near proximity, 
Thus unexpectedly made known, could call 
To Constance' cheek a flush so deep and warm 
As that now mantling it, I turn and watch 
For his appearance in the leafy arch. 
Formed by the low and interlacing boughs 



63 TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 

Of two great trees, through which a moment since 
The dog lias broken ; and in briefest space 
A tall and manly figure stands therein, 
And pauses with surprise, as on his view 
Breaks the unusual, and yet picturesque 
And lovely scene before him. 

Brief the pause, 
But in it I have noted well the tall 
And well-built form in hunting dress of brown ; 
The noble, kindly face with deep blue eyes, 
Broad brow and flowing beard, which hides in part 
The deep-cut lines around his firm, proud mouth — 
A mouth that wears just now a smile amused ; 
An eye that lights with sudden glad surprise. 
As on Miss Constance' blushing face it rests. 
And then with eagerness he forward steps. 
And with extended hand to her, exclaims : 
" Miss Disbrow ! this indeed a pleasure rare 
And unexpected is — to meet you here, 
In these lone woods, of which I thought myself 
Sole monarch at this time. Pray did you drop 
From those soft clouds above ? or have you wings 
To waft you hither from your distant home. 



TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 63 

Where scarce a week agone I stood with you, 
And in the evening gloaming said adieu ?" 

And Constance, rising, placed her liand in his, 
And answered, laughing : " Naught so marvelous 
As cloud or wings has brought me up this mount ; 
Though I had welcomed either, as I climbed 
Tlie steep, rough paths, and felt the burning sun 
Of Summer hot upon me. I might ask 
Of you the self-same question, but forbear. 
My good friend Gypsy took me by surprise 
A moment since, and, by her presence here, 
Susfffested that her master misrht be near." 



'CJS^ 



And then she turned and introduced her friend — 
Dane Denham, so she named him, I believe — 
And added, with the rose still on her cheek : 
"Had you appeared a brief space earlier. 
We could have offered to you something more 
Inviting than the remnants of our feast. 
Such as we have, we freely give, at least." 

"What more could any ask?" he said, with smiles, 
Which lighted pleasantly his fine, good face. 
" And I had found that tempting, at this hour, 



64 TIME: PLACE: PEBSONIS. 

Decked as it is with many a lovely flower, 
Save for the fact that appetite's demands 
Already are appeased. So, if you please, 
I'll but accept one of those lilies fair, 
As, of your late repast, my modest share." 

She gave the flower, simply, with a smile ; 
And he, its sweetness breathing, said to her — 
His kind hand stroking Gyp's sleek head the while- 
"So she apprised you of ray near approach. 
And your surprise forestalled, in some degree ! 
But fancy mine, when from the solitude 
And silence of these woody heights, I come 
Upon a picture such as greets me here. 
And find a friend I thought was distant, near !" 

She smiled, and Sylvie said, half timidly : 
" I hope you find the picture jsleasant, sir ? 
We think it beautiful." 

He turned on her 
One swift bright glance, another on the scene 
That spread its )t)eauty 'round him, and replied : 
"Aye ! far more pleasant than I've words to say ! 
These woods ai-e full of lovely nooks, and views. 



TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 65 

And grand surprises, but I've seeu as yet 
No spot so fair as this." 

" That tiny lake, 
Set in among these tall, engirdling trees. 
And fringed with wealth of ferns and water-flags, 
No little does to make it beautiful !" 
Suggested Constance. 

And he quick replied : 
" Nor is your grouping on this mossy green, 
Around the snowy cloth with flowers decked, 
The least fair feature of the witching scene. 
I think you cannot fancy how you add 
Unto its picturesqueness ; — what it was 
To step from out the silent, lonely wood 
On this high mount, where I had thought myself 
Alone, except for Gyp's companionship. 
Upon a scene so beautiful as this. 
Which lacks not e'en the human element. 
To make it seem perfection." 

" Do not move," 
Cried Sylvie, running to the leafy arch. 
Wherein the stranger had at first appeared, 
" 'Till I have seen how picturesque you look, 
Framed by the trees within this lovely nook." 



66 TIME: PLAGE: PERSONS. 

And Mr. Denbam, smiling, low remarked, 
As with admiring eyes he watched the girl : 
" She does not seem to know she takes away, 
With her depai'ture from the pictured group, 
One of its fairest figures." 

" Come and look ! " 
She called to me ; and as I joined her there : 
" We did not know we made a picture fair 
As that. Miss Wheaton, did we ! See how sweet 
Miss Constance looks with that bewitching flush 
Upon her cheek, that soft light in her eyes ! 
And he, the stranger, too, how nobly proud ! 
You should have been an artist, sir," she said. 
As laughing she returned, " and sketched us here, 
Ere we had been aware that you were near," 

"I would I were ! Something like that, indeed, 
Flashed through my thought as in you springing arch 
I paused a moment, ere I joined you here. 
I often wish the artist's skill were mine. 
When in my wanderings 1 come upon 
Some scene of beauty like to this — or one 
I saw this morn — of which I'll tell you naught. 
But on some day like this, as fair and bright, 



TUIE: PLACE: PERSONS. 67 

Will lead you thithei', if it pleases you 
My convoy to accept. This much, I think 
I may, howe'er, premise : that never yet 
Have you a scene which in similitude 
Approaches that, beheld. Not wild, or rude, 
Or picturesque, so much as strange agd weird. 
At all events, so it to mo appeared." 

" You make us curious ! " I said with smiles. 
" Pray is it near or far — this strange weird place ? 
And whither lies the path which we must trace 
To bring us thither ? " 

*' On, across the mount. 
And down the farther slope," he answered me, 
" If you would reach the spot from here; — a rough 
And rugged way, unpleasant to the feet 
Of those unused to treading mountain paths. 
But from below a gentle ascent leads 
Straight thitherward ; I therefore would advise 
Another day be chos'n, in which to view 
The curious scene I have described to you." 

"Described?" Miss Constance archly asked. "I 

thought 
You quite refused of it to tell us aught." 



68 TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 

" Pardon ! the scene to which I had referred, 
I should have said — I but mischose the word." 
He smiling answered. 

" I'll forgive !" thus she. 
And I : " To-morrow, then ? will that suit all ? 
If Mr. Denham for us then will call, 
And be our guide to that enchanting spot. 
Unlike all others. Is it wood or grot, 
Or mountain view, or sylvan, dusky dell, 
Or forest grim " 

" Nay, nay, I shall not tell !" 
He laughing, interposed. " 'Tvvould spoil the speii 
Which you are sure to feel creep o'er you, when 
You stand and gaze upon the scene of gloom 
To which I introduce you. I shall then 
To-morrow come, and thither be your guide? 
Your curious eye shall thus be gratified, 
And 7/ou will long to have the artist's skill 
The strange, drear picture to transfer at will 
To board or canvas." 

" Yes ? then shall I bring 
My book and pencils, and essay the scene ?" 
I smiling, asked : 

He turned a curious glance 



TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 69 

Upon my face, and scanned it well, then smiled 

And answered : " Yes ! you'll find it well worth while, 

I promise you." 

" Oh, papa, see that bird ! 
That lovely, lovely bird !" cried Sylvia ; 
And she, sweet child, herself not all unlike 
The bright-winged songster she so much admired, 
Sprang toward where the golden oriole 
Swung on its breezy perch above the lake ; 
And as it spread its wing swift flight to take 
To more secluded nooks, she followed fast. 
And soon was lost to view. Then Mr. Mayne, 
Half fearful lest too far her feet should roam, 
Strolled off to join his darling one ; and I 
Took up my book, and for a little space 
Withdrawing from the others, spread my shawl 
Upon the mossy bank, and gave myself 
To reading, and to thought. 

Thus left alone 
Were Constance and her friend, although in sight 
Of where I sat. But as, from time to time, 
I glanced up from my book, and saw the bright 
And lovely face, still wearing on its cheek 
Th3 soft pink flush his coming there had called ; 



70 TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 

And marked the deference of air and tone 
With which he talked to her ; I freely own 
, The romance thus unfolding to my eyes, 
I found more pleasant than the ryhthmic lines 
Which filled the open volume in my hand. 
And so, awhile, I pleased myself with what 
I pictured to my thought might be to these 
The outcome of this chance encounter here 
High on this mountain steep. Chance, did I say ? 
Nay, never chance ! Our God who rules the world, 
And guides its mightiest forces silently, 
Directs our steps, although we know it not ; 
And from remotest climes, leads, each to each, 
Those who were formed to round each other's lives, 
Though all the world oj^pose. And so- not chance, 
But God's sure hand of wise and perfect love, 
Had led these hitherward. 

I noted well 
The light of admiration in his eyes. 
As her sweet face they sought ; I saw how strong 
Her int'rest was in him ; I knew how deep, 
Aye, and how fathomless the well of love. 
Which in her young and tender heart would spring, 
When by the magic wand it should be touched ; 



TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 71 

I knew how passionate, and how intense 
The joy which would be hers in that glad hour ; — 
Aye ! did I not ? had I not tasted it ? — 
Just tasted, ere the jeweled goblet lay 
In fragments at my feet. Had I not felt 
The sacred triumph, and o'erwhelming bliss 
Of love thus given and received ? Ah, yes ! 
Not one sweet note in all love's magic scale, 
But I had learned to sound ! But ah, I, too, 
Had learned as well each solemn minor tone, 
Which filled my heart with pain that few have known, 
And, ringing there, woke many a bitter moan. 

Would it be thus with her ? Were never love 
In deepest fullness known to human hearts. 
Without its minor strains ? And yet, what song 
Or symphony so sweet as that through whicli 
That sad, low, thrilling undertone doth run ! 
How should we often tire of Day's glad sun, 
Were there no shade to give the brightness tone ! 
Love would be tame indeed were it all joy. 
Day would be wearisome were there no clouds 
To cast cool flick'ring shadows on the earth. 



73 TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 

And make the sunlight seem more soft and bright. 
The life that knows but joy, and peace, and love, 
Has never half its meaning known or proved. 
I would not have ray day all sun, no shade ; 
I would not have my song of love without 
Its tender minor notes ; but when alone 
Of these it is composed, the song becomes 
A dirge of mo urn fulness and deepest woe ; 
A day in which the clouds bend dark and low 
Through all its hours, is sad and drear indeed. 
But God is good, and gives to none all shade. 
Through darkest clouds how oft a sunbeam's 

made 
A golden rift, and promised fairer hours ! 
And saddest symphony not seldom swells 
To proudest notes of triumph, ere we turn 
The last page, and the final score discern. 

Thus hopeful for yon happy, loving girl ; 
And comforting myself, who truly stands 
In sorest need of such consoling cheer ; 
I idly sit upon the moss-grown bank, 
My open book unread upon my knee, ' 

And give to thought the fullest liberty. 



TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 73 

I will not say how oft a sudden pang 

Of memory — a longing deep and sore 

For his companionship, who keeps ray heart 

In firmest and in tend'rest hold, strikes sharp 

Upon its quiv'ring chords, as there I sit, 

And watch the two, who, for the moment, find 

Each in the other all that each desires. 

How e'en the memory of golden rifts 

"Which sometimes change the face of darkest 

clouds — 
The dirges, swelling oft to triumph proud, 
Writ as they are by God, in every part — 
Small comfort gives my sore and aching heart. 

But I am glad when Sylvia's return 
From childish chase of brilliant, swift-winged 

bird, 
Becomes the signal for our homeward walk. 
And as we slowly pace the hillside paths, 
I hear in silence all the lively talk 
Of merry Sylvie, happy as a child ; 
Of Constance, quieter but no less glad ; 
Of Mr. Mayne, whose careless, cheery tones 
Have grown familiar ; and the deep, low voice 



74 TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 

Of Mr. Denham joining in the chat ; 

And though I listen, sometimes with a smile, 

My heart throbs sadly, painfully the while. 

In bitterness I ask myself : Oh, what 
Have I with these in common ? They are glad, 
And young, and free from care ; life spreads before 
A bright and flow'ry way ; they tread with joy 
Its op'ning sweep, and dream 'tis all like this ; 
But I have deeply drank the bitter waves 
Which spring at intervals along its walks. 
The taste still ling'ring on my fevered lips ; 
My feet e'en yet are bleeding with the thorns 
I pressed in treading paths that looked as fair 
As these on which they're entering but now ; 
I've left behind me youth, and hope, and joy ; 
And though love still remains, as deep and strong 
As even they will know, its bonds annoy. 
And chafe, and fret, till I would fain be free 
From thralldom which has brought but pain to me. 

So what have I in common with glad youth ; 
And these, who nothing know of grief like mine. 
Or what it is to live, and still resign 



' TIME: PLACE: PERSONS. 75 

All that makes up life's happiness and worth. 

Their fullness makes my dearth seem still more great ; 

Their joyousness more deep and strong my pain ; 

So I am glad from these and all to' escape, 

And shut myself within ray silent room, 

Alone with Sorrow, and my heart's deep gloom. 



PART SECOND. 



WINE. 



PART SECOND. 
WINE. 



I. 



" But when at last upon their way returning, 
Through the broad meadow in the sunshine burning, 
They reached the gate, one sweet spell hindered both.' 



A MORN of Slimmer splendor ! crystalline 

With myriad dew-drops, sparkling 'mid the green 

In bi'illiant scintillations ! opalline 

With blue transparent mists, which, shot athwart 

From time to time with iridescent gleams, 

Show all the opal's changes ! berylline 

With glitt'ring leaves, transparent in the sun, 

By skillful lapidary chased and cut ! 

And amethystine, too, with purple clouds, 

Which turn their opaque edges to the light, 

[78] 



80 WINE. 

And their reverse of silver thus reveal ! 
Golden as well, with crowns of sunny sheen 
Set on each mountain brow, and flashing soft 
Their radiance on the meadow's verdant cheek ; 
With sun-tipped arrows, piercing to the heart 
Of forest monarch, and the bosom bright 
Of mountain torrent laughing at their flight, 
And catching them with playful, foamy hands, 
To toss them back, charged with the iris' hues, 
From deepest reds, to palest, loveliest blues ! 

A straight-cut road, which upward, upward slopes ; 
And many a lovely vista to us opes ; 
And many .1 wide extended view reveals. 
As carelessly along its grass-grown ruts 
We stroll, and chat, or silence keep at will ! 
But for the song of birds, which with a thrill 
Of sound delicious, now and then bursts forth, 
And insects hum, the perfect morn is still. 
On either side are low o'ershad'wing trees. 
Wreathed thick with summer garniture of leaves, 
Displaying all the wide variety 
Of grouping, veining, tinting, finish, cut. 
Which lavish Nature, with unstinted hand. 



WINE. 81 

Gives to the warm-breathed summer. And the ferns, 

As varied and as fine, which group themselves 

By every rock in this productive soil, 

Their fringed fronds are waving everywhere. 

Beside the path, one of the many brooks 

Of this well watered land, runs silently, 

And fed by mountain springs, lies clear and cool 

Upon its snowy pebbles ; sleeps in pools 

Wherein the tiniest fishes swim and sport ; 

And flows in dreamy leisure down the slope. 

Till it has reached yon ragged, bristling gorge, 

And, startled, wakes to take the rapid plunge 

Which swift precipitates it, white with foam, 

Down to the sunny, grass-grown meads below. 

Through which, content, it runs with gurgling flow. 

Our party is increased by two to-day ; 
They who with Constance Disbrow hither came, 
Her brother, and his gentle, blue-eyed wife. 
She is not strong, the lady, nor is used 
To climbing hills like these ; and so she claims 
Her husband's arm to aid her up the slope. 
And often lingers 'neath some spreading tree, 
Whose shade invites her to a brief repose. 
4* 



82 WINE. 

Somewhat ahead, Miss Constance and her friend, 

Who carries neath his arm my sketching-book — 

Which I, by him reminded, thus have brought — 

And talks to his companion, in a tone 

So low his words are lost to all but her ; 

While she, the tell-tale pink upon her cheek, 

Almost in silence listens ; now and then 

Her sweet eyes raising to his low-bent face, 

With shy, half-conscious, but exquisite grace. 

To these, at least, naught wanting is to make 

The day perfection ; and I smile, and joy 

In her just dawning happiness — and sigh 

At thought of days as fair as this begun, 

Which turned to darkness ere the noon was reached. 

Beside me, Mr. Mayne ! and here and there. 

Among the trees on either side the way, 

Or bending o'er the murmuring brook, to watch 

The tiny fishes sporting in its pools. 

And dipping lily fingers in the tide 

In vain attempt to grasp them ; gath'ring flowers, 

And delicatest ferns, until her hands 

Are running o'er with color ; pausing now 

By us, and now, half timidly, indeed. 

By Constance and her friend, with girlish chat 



WINE. 83 

And sweet refrain of laughter ; followed close 
By Gyp, where'er she wanders, flits the light 
And graceful form of Sylvie, glad and gay 
As are the birds who swing and sing all day. 

So on we stroll along the pleasant path ; 
And nothing weird has met our eyes as yet, 
Seen by the light of morning's brilliant sun ; 
And nothing stranger than the miracle 
Of summer once again returned to earth 
After long exile to the gracious South — 
After long sleep among the wintry snows — 
Than wealth of verdure and of blossom bright 
Where few months since was dearth of leaf and bloom; 
And then we pass some rustic bars — " Just like 
A drove of sweet-breathed kine, turned out at morn 
To graze in pleasant pastures, while the dew 
Lies sweet and cool upon the meadow grass " — 
Says merry Sylvie as we each file through. 
And still the grassy pathway spreads before, 
Smooth, soft as velvet carpet to the feet. 
So Mr. Mayne : " Why, one would think that this 
Had been a traveled road ; so straight it is, 
So uniform in breadth, so deep the ruts, 



84 wmE. 

All grass-grown though they be. See how it cuts 
Its way right through the trees on either side ! 
A simple path would be less true and wide." 

And Mr. Denham answers : " You are right ! 
I'm told it led straight up these swelling hills, 
From o'er the river, whose translucent tic'e 
Flows through the vale five hundred feet below. 
Until it reached the pretty county town. 
Set like a jewel mid its em'rald hills. 
They called it then ' The Turnpike ' ; now the same, 
Except that ' Old^ is added to its name." 

"And why The Turnpike ?" Sylvie laughing asks. 
" Because it is so straight and never turns ? — 
Ne'er turns aside to run through breezy woods 
With shadows dusk? to find some sylvan nook 
Where fairies dwell? to linger near some brook 
That has on summer days a sweet, cool look ?" 

" Yet takes them gratefully when in its way 
They come — as here, for instance — would you say ?" 
Says Mr. Denham, joining in her mood. 
"No doubt you know," he adds, "that in old days 



WINE. 85 

Across all well-made roads was interposed 

At intervals, a barrier, named a gate ; 

To pass which, or by day or night, though late 

The hour, though urged by weaj-iness or haste. 

The traveler was forced to patient bide 

The coming of the keeper, whose demand 

Of 'toll' must be regarded, or the gate 

Shut down upon his path like bars of fate. 

And roadways thus patrolled were ' Turnpikes ' named ; 

And this was one." 

"Ah, now I comprehend ! 
In those * old days ' my spirit had not come 
To dwell on earth, but wandered 'mid the stars, 
Or sought some planet distant far from this. 
Where ' Turnpikes ' are not known ; where all the paths 
Are paved with golden splinters from the sun, 
And open to the viewless sprites of air. 
So 'tis not wonderful I could not guess 
"Why traveled way, so straightly cut as this, 
Should thus be named. — Oh, papa, look ! how queer. 
And how uncanny ! and how lone, and drear. 
And silent ! Mr. Denham ! it is here — 
This is the place you wished us to behold — 
Is it not so?" And Sylvie, sensitive 



86 WINE. 

As frailest wind-flow'r of the earliest spring 
In blasts of April, shivers as with cold, 
The curious scene before her to behold. 

The child has stopped spell-bound, half-breathless 
too, 
With her first exclamation of surprise ; 
And we have paused as well — our guide, with smiles 
At Sylvie's artlessness and wonder ; we, 
With a surprise as deep as he could wish. 
For there before, out of the summer's heart, 
Out of the flush and verdancy of June, 
Was spread a wintry wood, devoid of leaf. 
Or bud, or blossom ; through its length and breadth 
No spot of greenness or of bloom was shown ; 
No gush of bird-song sounded from the place ; 
A cold, gray twilight filled it, for no ray 
Of sunlight's glory fell or flashed therein ; 
But, at the farther side, a bright gold light 
Showed that the sun was shining just beyond — 
A brilliant background to the eerie scene. 
Thus all was bare, as though a deadly blight 
Had fallen on the place ; and silent, too. 
As if 'twere frozen by the wrath of God. 



WINE. 87 

On one hand this ! And on the other side, 
The grass-paved road ; the trees, in their rich dress 
Of soft, deep green ; the wealth of waving ferns ; 
The briar roses with their crimson cheeks ; 
The creeping vines ; the mosses, velvet soft ; 
The laughing brook ; and merry, singing birds. 
On one hand all the summer's blush and bloom ! 
And on the other, winter's deepest gloom ! 

We gaze awhile in silence at the view 
Thus opened suddenly before our eyes. 
Too filled with wonderment, and with surprise. 
Too conscious, each, of that drear influence 
Which scenes so weird exert o'er minds refined, 
To put in words our feelings or our thoughts. 
Then Mr. Mayne the silence bi'eaks, and says : 
" Well, this indeed is curious ! a scene 
Unlike all I have hitherto beheld 
In this most picturesque, romantic land. 
The seasons here seem truly to have met, 
And clasped their hands, Not ' Summer lingering 
In lap of Spring,' as we so often read, 
But Winter, hoary, gray, severe of mien. 
Held in the fresh warm arms of Summer's queen." 



88 WINB. 

And Sylvie : " Ugh ! 'tis horrible ! and filled 
At night, I know, with goblins, and the pale 
Weird ghosts of summers past and gone, wherein 
These dead old trees have tossed their tender arms 
In breezes sweet with violets, and warm 
With southern fires ; have sighed and whispered soft 
Responses to the wooing winds ; and drank 
With joy, the nectar of the evening dews. 
Just think how wild and drear it must appear, 
Seen by the ghastly moonlight, pale and blue ! 
Ugh ! I'd not enter there, by day or night, 
For all the fabled store of glitt'ring gold 
Hung from the rainbow's prism'd arch ! would you. 
Miss Constance ? say !" 

And Constance, with a shrug : 
"I would not care to, certainly ! it seems 
To me uncanny in extreme ; so still, 
And gray, and desolate, in contrast viewed 
To all the light and color of the fields, 
And hills, and verdant woods, o'er which and through. 
Our way has led this morn." 

Ad-interim, 
The others have approached, and their surprise 
And wonder duly shown. And then to me 



WINE. 

Our guide turns with a smile, and curious says : 
" Now, if you please. Miss Wheaton, we will have 
Your verdict on the scene ! what its impress 
On your more cultivated mind has been. 
The girls, with youth's susceptibility 
To Nature's influence, and by it swayed, 
With eloquence to us have just portrayed 
The deep impression made on them by this 
Most curious of her works. Now let us hear 
How such a prospect has the pow'r to move 
A mind that's more mature." 

" Nay, I've not left 
My youth so far behind me, but I yet 
Am sensitive as they to Nature's moods," 
I, smiling, answer him. " Nor is my mind 
So strong, or so mature, but I too feel 
The influ'nce weird, the strange, uncanny spell 
Exerted by this most unusual scene. 
To come upon it here, engirdled close 
In summer's warmth and wealth, seems not unlike 
What it would be to tread Judea's hills, 
Bathed in the radiance of an Eastern sun. 
And come ujDon a valley, wide and deep. 
Wherein a silent army lies, complete 



90 WINE. 

In outward form, in sinew, bone, and flesh, 

But void of breath, and waiting for the voice 

Of prophecy to speak the magic words 

Unto the winds of heaven, that bid them breathe 

Upon those myriad forms inanimate, 

That they may live again. Oft, to my mind, 

I've pictured thus those rigid, prostrate shapes 

Which filled the Prophet's wondrous vision, but 

So forcible an illustration ne'er 

Have I beheld, as this. They seem to me — 

These bare, gray trees — like to a company 

Of yet unburied dead, awaiting here, 

In silence, and in deep, unbroken gloom, 

A formal sepulture in fitting tomb." 

Though Sylvie shivered at the picture grim 
My words had conjured up ; and though in them 
There truly nothing seemed of ludicrous, 
Yet Mr, Denham laughed, as in response. 
Then, seeing our surprise, he gayly said : 
" I find the mind I deemed the most mature — 
Endowed with largest store of strength and sense, 
Has drank more deeply of the potent spell 
This scene exerts, than these less cultured ones. 



WINE. 91 

I fancied yours too nicely poised, to feel 

The thrill of nameless dread I knew would steal 

Along these youthful pulses ; that from you 

A full appreciation, it is true, 

This curious picture would receive, but yet, 

I fancied it would seem to you no more 

Than what it is — a bleak and dreary wood, 

Contrasting sharply with the scene around. 

And lo, from you the most poetic flight 

Of fancy doth proceed — from you the most 

Romantic simile — a still, dead host !" 

" Yes, and why not ?" I query. " Is i^, true 
The mind by culture or maturity 
Aught of its power loses f does it not 
The rather gahi in all fine impulses — 
In sensitiveness unto all that wakes 
The finer sensibilities and thoughts ? 
Does not the cultivated mind respond 
Most quickly to the throbs of Nature's heart, 
And feel most sensibly her changing moods? 
The rude and unrefined would little see 
In this sti'ange scene, beyond the simple fact 
Which it presents — a half dead wood, devoid 



93 WINE. 

Of sunlight or of color, set within 

A brilliant summer landscape. This, indeed, 

-Tsee as well ; but yet it is to me 

A something more than this : another proof 

Of Nature's wide variety, displayed 

For our instruction, admiration, gain ; 

A grand, poetic thought from God's own heart. 

It has for me, beside, a simile 

Of deeper meaning still than I've expressed, 

Which touches on the wide experience 

My heart and life has known. This I forbore 

To give to you, for reasons varied ; but 

I do not feel you paid, in what you said, 

A tribute just or flatt'ring to the mind 

Matui'e, or cultivated, or refined." 

" I stand corrected, and your pardon crave ! " 
To this he answered. " I'd not giv'n, in truth, 
The subject e'en a moment's passing thought, 
Or had the same conclusion doubtless reached. 
It must be true, indeed, that culture gives 
The powers of the mind a wider scope, 
A deeper sensibility and strength. 
And had I studied thoughtfully your face, 



WINE. 93 

I must have seen the fine, poetic lines 
Predominant o'er those of prosy sense ; 
And have expected to receive from you 
The highest flight of imagery and thought, 
Descriptive of the pow'r with which is fi'aught 
A scene of contrasts so pronounced and wide, 
Which could be given us. And my surprise 
Had not provoked reproof so stern, yet wise." 

" Oh, I'll forgive you, since 'tis true that your 
Discernment only was in fault. And now, 
If you'll resign the burden you have borne 
So kindly hitherto, I'll, with what skill 
I may possess, the outlines of this scene 
Transfer to paper, that I may at will 
Fill in with light and color — which it needs 
To give its contrasts force." 

He gave the book ; 
My pencils pointed ; sought for me a nook 
Where I could sketch at ease ; wished me success ; 
With playful envy coveted my gift ; 
Then, at my bidding, left me to my work. 
And with the rest strolled onward for a space ; 
And I was left alone in this strange place. 



94 WINE. 

I sketched some moments rapidly, then leaned 
My cheek upon my hand, and gazed, and dreamed. 
How like my life — and theirs, all gay and bright — 
This picture of strange contrasts is ! I thought. 
I, in the midst of life's warm summer still, 
But stricken to the heart with wintry gloom — 
Its life and hope, and youthfulness, and joy, 
Dead as those silent branches, and, like them, 
Its verdure and its bloom all turned to gray ! 
And they, my gay companions, in whose cups 
The wine of life, and youth, and happiness 
Foams sparkling to the brim — their hearts are glad, 
And bright, and flushed with color, as these hills, 
Which, like a beryl circlet, clasp the scene, 
And make the dearth and dimness deeper seem ! 

Thus musing as I gaze, I note again. 
The warm, gold sheen of light that shows beyond 
The shadowed wood, and catch therefrom a gleam 
Of brightness for my saddened heart ; a faint, 
Sweet thrill of hope, that when my falt'ring feet 
Have traversed all the dreary length before — 
E'en though the pathway ends but in a grave — 
I shall the sun's rich gladness find beyond. 



WINE. 95 

Then I can say : What matters it that rue 

Was in my cup, while others drank but wine ! 

That through the gray my weary feet were led, 

While others walked in radiance of the sun ! 

What matters it to grasp, or to resign, 

If, when the joy or bitterness is past, 

God makes the trembling balance good at last ! 

A drop of rain falls on my open page, 

And startles me from revery profound. 

I glance above. The amethystine clouds 

Have floated to the zenith, and obstruct 

The golden flood poured from th' advancing sun ; 

But still their opaque edges, violet deep. 

They upward roll to catch the streams of light, 

And show their lining still is silver bright. 

The crystal drops are falling thick and fast. 
I hear a sound of rapid footsteps near ; 
Of merry tones, and laughter ringing clear, 
And close my book — although my sketch, indeed. 
Is but an outline crude — then rise, and wait 
Their coming, which is near. For, breathed with 
haste, 



96 WINE. 

And fleeing from the chase of Summer shower, 
They soon are at my side. 

" Quick ! in the wood," 
Cries Mr. Denhara, " till the rain is past ! 
'Twill give you shelter for the time at least ; 
'Tis but a passing shower, — it will not last, 
The diamond globules fall too thick and fast." 

And hastily his bidding we obey, 
Forgetful of the dread it had inspired 
Short space before, and only eager now 
To 'scape the deluge which the clouds o'erhead 
Are pouring from their vi'let depths. The wood 
Has lost its terror on a near approach — 
To Sylvie, even, who " for all the gold 
Hung from the rainbow's arch, by night or day 
Would never enter here !" Her laugh rings sweet 
Along these silent aisles, as she submits 
To sharpest raill'ry on her recent fears — 
Her late aversion, forcibly expressed. 
To entering a place so filled with ghosts. 
But saucily the child retorts in kind. 
And claims her woman's right to change her mind. 



WIITE. 97 

The wood has lost its terror, as I said. 
And though it seems a strange anomaly, 
A curious freak of Nature, yet, in fact, 
It is of natural causes the result. 
The trees are pines — not large, but closely set ; 
So closely, that the branches intertwine 
With density so great no gleam of sun 
Can pierce its thick-wove roof. The boughs are 

low, 
Scarce six feet from the ground, and uniform 
In height, as though by landscape gard'ner shorn ; 
And though the topmost ones are waving green, 
These, for the want of sunlight's life-fraught beams, 
Are dead as though their flowing sap was chilled 
By winter's icy frosts. The ground is strewn 
To depth of inclies with the dead brown spines 
Of other years. No briary underbrush 
Our steps retarding with its clinging hands ; 
No dainty vine its green length trailing o'er 
The piny carpet ; and no tinj- flower 
Its sweet head lifting to the morning breeze, 
Gives hint of summer verdure, that lies wide 
And warm through all the lovely world outside. 
5 



98 WIJSlE. 

As through the dim gray aisles we slowly stroll, 
While fast the summer rain drops soft without — 
The girls' sweet laughter banishing the ghosts — 
Our guide essays to take my sketching book, 
And begs that at my picture he may look. 

" No, no ! " I answer, with detaining hand. 
"My * picture's' but an outline, incomplete. 
And crude in the extreme. To tell the truth," 
I smiling add, " I fear I spent more time 
In dreaming, like a girl, than on my sketch. 
Although, indeed, my dreams were all unlike 
Those of a hapjjy maiden in her teens. 
Some day I'll give the outline tone and hue. 
And you shall see, and criticise it too." 

"The outline of your dreams?" he laughing asks. 

" Of those as well, perhaps ; I cannot tell. 
Some fair day in the future, you may ope 
A volume freshly from the press, and find 
My dream — and sketch — in colors so precise, 
You cannot fail to either recognize." 



WINE. 99 

" I trust I raay ! 'Twould give me joy, indeed, 
A picture of this hour and scene to read. 
It must be i^leasant, truly, thus to own 
The conscious power to perpetuate 
In pictured words, or penciled sketch, such scenes 
As please our eyes this morn — and thrill our dreams^ 

The last with smiles of mischief. Then he adds : 
" But see ! at last we've reached the confines grim 
Of this dim wood ! and lo, the rain has ceased — 
The velvet fields slope greenly from our feet, 
And all is bright and gay, and fresh, and sweet. 
We've left the grey behind us — and the dun ; 
And here before us is the glorious sun." 

He spoke so earnestly, and in my eyes 
Looked with such meaning glance, I felt at once 
'Tvvas not without design ; that he had guessed 
The sorrow and unrest that fills my breast, 
And so would fain some cheer and hope impart. 
I thanked him gratefully, and from my heart, 
But not in words. My eyes, that searched his face, 
Brimmed full with sudden tears, and drooped to hide 
Their dimness from the man who at my side 



100 WINE. 

Still kept his place, one hand upon the book 
I yet retained in mine with partial hold — 
While down the shining hills we slowly strolled. 

The girls, with Gyp, ran gayly on before. 
Through grass still dripping from the summer shower ; 
And in the rear good Mr. Mayne had joined 
Tlie others of our party, and we beard 
His cheery tones, discussing pleasantly 
With Mr. Disbrow, topics of the day. 
So we pursued our downward, homrward way, 
And reached the farmliouse by another path 
Than that by which we left it. 

Wearied, warm, 
I sat within the shady porch at rest, 
And watched my late companion, by the gate, 
Where still he lingered o'er his brief farewell 
To Constance ; who, with downcast eyes, and smiles 
Half pleased, half mischievous, the low-toned words 
He uttered, listened, happily I knew, 
And now and then gave arch response thereto. 

And when at last he went, and up the path 
She slowly came to join me where I sat. 



WINE. 101 

The rose Lis words or presence had evoked, 
Still Imgered warm upon her fair, soft cheek. 
And as upon the step, just at my feet, 
Herself she seated, I looked down and smiled, 
And meeting her half-conscious eyes, I said : 
" I like him well ; he's kind and true, I know ; 
His face, and words, and manner, speak him so." 

" Indeed he is ! " she earnestly returned. 
While deeper still her cheeks' soft roses burned. 
"You do not know — 'tis scarce two months as yet 
Since first I met him, as, for many years. 
He's been an exile from his native land. 
And only late returned ; but I've a friend 
Who's known and loved him from her early youth — 
To whom he's been a brother ; who I've heard 
Relate such stories of his kindness, truth. 
And bravery, I've come to feel, with her, 
That there are few who can with him compare 
In true nobility and worth." 

" Take care ! " 
I smiling said, as I arose to go. 
Then bent to tap her cheek. " Do you not know 
You stand on dang'rous ground ? of what so high 



103 WINE. 

An estimate of one is oft the base ? 
Guard carefully the tender, flutt'ring heart, 
From which the issues of a woman's life 
Proceed, and make her weal or utter woe. 
And God be with and bless you all the way ! 
If it micst be that clouds shall come, I pray 
He lead you through them to the perfect day." 

Her face, which first had crimsoned painfully, 
Grew grave and wistful at my closing words ; 
And in her dark, uplifted eyes I read 
A startled consciousness ray words had stirred. 
And reading it, I smiled again, and went ; 
And left her on her new, strange thoughts intent. 



II. 



" We were together. 
How ? Where ? What matter ?— Somewhere in a dream. 
Drifting, slow drifting down a wizard stream. 
Whither ? Together : then what matter whither ? " 



The lovely summer, like a pleasure barge, 
Wreathed thick from stem to stern with garlands 
bright, 



WmE. 103 

Of lilies woven, gleaming waxen white, 

And roses, blushing to their fragrant hearts ; 

With canopy of silver-fretted blue, 

Fringed deep at times with purple and with gold ; 

And streaming pennons, gay with many a hue — 

Green, amber, crimson, violet, and rose ; 

And fanned by breezes from the South's soft clime, 

Drifts swiftly down the silent tide of time. 

Though gay with banners, and with wreathen 
flowers, 
'Tis freighted deep with human destinies, 
Which shall, perchance, ere turning of the tide, 
Be made or marred, as they — and God — decide. 

The voyagers are many : some are gay, 
And dance and laugh the speeding time away ; 
And some are sad, and watch the silver tide. 
To see how rapidly the barge doth glide 
Out to the ocean of Eternity ; 
And some are careless of the cabled hours, 
And let them idly slip from heedless hands. 
As though they were but ropes of fading flowers ; 



104 WINE. 

And some have learned their priceless worth, aud 

hoard 
Each parting strand, as does the miser old 
His precious store of hard-won, oft-told gold. 
And so the barge floats with the flowing tide ! 
So swiftly onward does the summer glide ! 

Our pleasant party still remains unchanged, 
And we, too, drift, and dream the hours away !* 
And theirs are rose and golden — mine are gray ! 
Yet side by side we float adown the stream, 
And each is wrapped about with her own dream. 
The past fills mine — the present theirs alone. 
For as the summer drifts with rapid flow, 
And days grow brilliant, nights more wondrous fair, 
The verb " to grasp " they learn to conjugate, 
And I the harder lesson, " to resign." 
'Tis play to them — to me a bitter task, 
Conned o'er with weariness, and tears, and sighs ; 
With aching head and heart, and brimming eyes. 

Ah, such is life ! to one the bubbling wine, 
The bitter rue to others. It is hard 
To ever be from pleasant draughts debarred, 



WINE. 105 - 

And with the rue of life be quite content. 
God give us help — us who in sorest straits 
Ai-e tempted oft to question and rebel. 
Teach us to feel that what He gives is well, 
How sweet or sadsoe'er. And, for the rest, 
To trust, whate'er our fate, Se knoweth best. 

I said our party still remains unchanged. 

I should have added, save for one, a youth 

From yonder parsonage among the trees. 

By name Alaric Eadmer — who of late 

Has often joined us in our walks, or come 

To swell our number when at eventide 

We sit within the porch so cool and wide. 

And list the katy-dids and croaking frogs ; 

And crickets chirp ; and corn-fly's rasping tick ; 

And watch the shifting shadows idle play 

In yon deep vale below. I scarce need say 

That pretty Sylvie is the lure which draws 

Him hitherward, and makes his life at once 

A torment and a pleasure. She exhausts 

On him her pow'rs of teasing ; then relents. 

And is so kind, and so bewitching, too. 

The boy is half beside himself with joy, 
5* 



106 WINE. 

And taxes all his pow'rs the girl to please, 
And tempt to graciousness the little tease. 

To-day we spent in Sylvie's favorite nook 
Beside the lake, whence flows the mountain brook 
That sparkles silver-clear short space away. 
This time by Mr. Denham's wish expressed. 
Had we been sharp, or wise, we might have guessed 
Some secret hid beneath his earnestness, 
And spoiled of his surprise the full success. 
But we were innocent ; and when he said 
Last eve to me ; " Miss Wheaton, I have found 
Another sight, more curious than all. 
Which you will like to view. Then shall I come 
And lead you thither on the morrow morn? 
And as 'tis on the way, what say you all 
To spending by that lovely mountain lake 
Where first we met, the hours that may remain?" — 
We gave assent, nor guessed a purpose lay 
Beneath that careless manner hid away. 

"See ! is not that romantic in extreme?" 
He asked this morn, when, at a sudden turn 
The roadway in down which we slowly strolled, 



WINE. 107 

A total change of scene before us rolled 
Its panoramic canvas, green and gold. 

Before us, cool with shadows, for a space 

Crept, windingly, the hard brown road, then climbed 

A distant hill, and so ran out of sight. 

On one hand lay a level meadow wide. 

Swept with a flood of sunlight, soft and warm ; 

And 'mid its golden greenness, here and there, 

Great rifts of scarlet and of yellow, told 

Where stately meadow lilies reared their heads. 

Between, a brook, which showed, far up its stream, 

A silver fall that turned the mill beside ; 

While on the other hand, a grove of pines, 

Tall, proud and stately, tossed their plumM heads, 

Repellant of each amorous advance 

Made by the gay young breeze that flitted by ; 

And, through the shady interstices seen, 

A cool, soft carpet of the deepest green. 

Invitingly its velvet lengths unrolled ; 

'Twas woven thick with checkerberry vines. 

And dainty ferns, and spangled o'er with gold ; 

While, mingled sparsely with the tasseled pines, 

Were bronze-green oaks, and maples lighter-hued, 



108 WII^E. 

Which stretched their spreading arms in gen'rous love 
To clasp the haughty pines which tow'red above. 

"We'll take the pathway through the grove, I 
think ; 
You'll find it softer, cooler to the foot 
Than is the dusty road." So said our guide, 
When we had gazed upon the picture wide 
And beautiful, till each was satisfied. 
And we were glad its dusk depths to explore. 
So cool and tempting did they spread before. 

Said Sylvie as we ling'ring paced along ; 
Or paused to list some thrilling gush of song 
Which, like a joyous welcome, floated down 
From swaying boughs o'erhead ; or stooped to pluck 
Some dainty -flower, or fern-leaf wondrous fine ; 
Or on some fallen tree-trunk half recline 
While drinking in the loveliness around : 
** Ah, Mr. Denham, please ! what have you found 
To show us now ? Another eerie scene, 
Wild, drear, and grim, to scare from us our wits, 
And make us shake with horror ? " 

And he laughed, 



WINE. 109 

And answered pleasantly : " Nay — patient be, 
And you ere long the wondrous sight shall see. 
Tis not a wood, filled full with ghastly ghosts ; 
Nor yet a mighty, but insensate host, 
Awaiting sepulture in fitting tomb, 
Or voice prophetic, which, with clarion tone 
Shall bid the winds give back the long-spent breath. 
It will not be suggestive of grim death, 
E'en to Miss Wheaton — else I much mistake ; 
But rather of rich life, which clings to earth 
With most tenacious grasp, though slight its hold 
Upon the strong, life-giving, crumbling mould." 

The curious smile with which he paused, gave hint 
Of deeper meaning in his careless words. 
That at the first appeared. He smiled again 
More broadly, and with mischief, as he caught 
The searching glance I bent upon his face ; 
But nothing further said. — Nor I — but this : 
"'Tis plain that Mr. Denham loves to play 
Upon the pow'rful curiosity, 
He fancies we, as women, must possess, 
And but with difficulty can repress." 



110 WINE. 

"Nay, nay, you do me wrong ! " protested he, 
But laughingly. " Would it not spoil the charm 
Were you to know just what you might expect ? 
And would it not detract, in great degree. 
From your enjoyment of whate'er surprise 
Dame Nature mayhap has for you prepared, 
Were I in detail to describe the thing ? 
Moreover, have I not in every case 
Made good all I have promised ? — rather, have 
I 80 unduly made attempt to raise 
The ' cui'iosity ' you may possess. 
As that you felt an overwhelming sense 
Of disappointment, in observing that 
To which I had invited you ? " 

"I fear 
We must admit the truth of what he claims." 
Thus with a shrug, said I. — " At all events, 
He's passing skillful in his own defense." 

And he — " I fear you must ! But, by the by, 
Seest thou the sorry plight of those two pines. 
Thus lying, shattered, in their lordly prime. 
And dying slowly, tortur'ngly, as dies 
A strong man in his strength ? One fair, bright morn 



WINE. Ill 

Of this sweet summer time, they towered high 

In lofty pride of life ; and shook their plumes, 

Fragrant and fresh from morning bath of dew ; 

And nodded gaily to the coming sun, 

Nor spurned the soft, warm kisses that he gave. 

But as the day swift sped, above their heads 

Some threat'ning arabesques of sable cloud 

Rolled rapidly, and draped the glad, gold sun. 

But still they tossed their heads in haughty pride ; 

And whispered softly to themselves ; and sighed — 

But not for grief, nor yet for sharp regret. 

But as a maiden sighs, for very joy 

That life bounds warmly, sweetly through her veins. 

Then swift, bright shafts of flame broke, trembling, 

from 
The deep heart of the cloud, and as the torn 
And quiv'ring edges met again, a long 
Deep moan of anguish from the hurt cloud broke. 
But swifter, swifter, came the bursts of flame ; 
And louder, longer, rolled the anguished moans ; 
And then one fiery shaft, far-reaching, swift, 
Burst from the lab'ring cloud, and like a dart 
Flung from an Indian bow-string, taut and strong. 
It tore its way straight to the lordly heart 



11* WINE. 

Of those poor pines, and wounded, shattered, shorn 
Alike of beauty and of strength, they two 
Groaned, quivered, reeled, then tottered and fell prone 
Within each other's arms ; and like a wreck 
Of once proud manhood, lie there, as you see, 
While ebbs the life-blood from the stricken heart, 
And death comes slowly to each sentient part." 

" Alas for thee, poor pines ! alas for thee !" 
Sol. 

And Sylvie : " Oh ! you make me feel, 
And half believe those shattered trees had been 
Endowed with human life, and human power 
To feel the stroke that felled them in their prime — 
The chill of death along their limbs slow steal, 
Blighting and with'ring, like untimely frosts 
Which chill the heart of summer flowers, ere blow 
The winds of autumn." 

Ml-. Denham laughed ; 
And Zsaid : " Child, 'tis but a lofty flight 
Of wild, poetic fancy, which our friend 
Sees fit to thus indulge, with thought to please 
Our ' cultivated ' ears. In truth, these trees 
Are but two pines felled by a thunder-bolt. 



WINE. 113 

He's young, you know, and so is sensitive 
To Nature's whims ; and by her is inspired 
To grace with imagery poetic, this 
Result, and proof of her disastrous pow'r, 
On these poor trees exerted, in an hour 
Of storm and tempest." 

So he laughed again, 
Retorting quickly : " I some lessons took, 
Not many weeks agone, in that sweet lore. 
Have I not swiftly profited — and well — 
By your instruction ?" 

" Rapidly, indeed ! 
And also well," I said. " We soon shall see 
A full-fledged poet in our friend, in flight 
Above his fellows soaring. If he swings 
So high at first attempt to try his wings, 
What altitude may he not hope to gain, 
When use has giv'n his pinions strength ? Ah ! we 
Who have aspired Fame's harvest fields to reap. 
Must look well to our bays, if we would keep 
The laurels we have won." 

" Indeed, you must !" 
He answered lightly. " Now, shall we walk on ? 
For soon the morning freshness will be gone, 



114 wmE. 

And we shall have the scorching noon-day heat 
In which to climb yon hills." 

So on we roamed, 
Through the soft shades, and shifting em'rald glooms, 
And left the stricken pines to die alone. 
Crossing a tiny brook, which to itself 
Was purling softest songs as on it ran. 
Said Sylvie : " Mr, Denham, 'twas not, then, 
Those two poor trees, whose sad, pathetic tale 
You have related to us, that this morn 
You led us hitherward to view?" 

" Oh, no !" 
He answered, smiling. "Those were *by the way.* 
Did I not promise what you were to view 
Should give no hint of death or gliosis to you, 
But rather life, and its tenacity ? 
I make my promise good. Behold, and see !" 

And then I understood all he had meant 
By words and smile, when in like terms before 
He had alluded to the curious sight 
He'd led us here to see. For as he spoke. 
He pointed where, brief space removed from us, 
A huge rock lay, embedded deep in soil. 



WINK 115 

Which yet from base to rugged apex showed 
Five feet or more of height ; and from the top, 
2hm pines, as tall as once had been those two 
Whose fate untimely we had lately mourned, 
And straight as tap'ring mast of well-built ship, 
Tow'red upward, proud and high. At first it seemed 
They had no hold save on the barren rock ; 
And we were struck with wonder, that the shock 
Of many winters, with their beating storms. 
And wildly rushing winds ; and summers, with 
Their sudden gales, and tempests raging high, 
Had not prevailed to tear them from their place. 
But on a nearer view, we found the bi-ave 
And sturdy trees had thrown out massive roots. 
Which, clothed with bark, crept downward o'er the 

rock, 
And grasped, vrith eager hands, the strong, rich soil 
In which the stone lay 'bedded. So sustained, 
Supported so, the once small saplings grew, 
Until they waved their topmost boughs as high 
As any of their peers that towered nigh. 

And still, 'twas marvelous that in the lapse 
Of half a century of stormy j^ears, 



116 WINE. 

No blast more fierce than others had assailed 
The brave twin trees, and laid them in the dust. 
But they were sheltered, somewhat, from the force 
Of tempest-beat, by others that grew close, 
Save on one side, by which the shady road 
We late had left, wound up the hillside steep, 
Which helped to break the wind's wild surge and 
sweep. 

Observing this put in my mind a thought 
Which aided partially to solve one more 
Of life's deep riddles to my puzzled heart, 
By its experience propounded oft. 
And Constance, by my side, whose hand was laid 
Within my arm — whose eyes, it seemed, were bent 
Upon my face, as, like a brilliant light 
Thrown in a darkened room, the good thought came 
And whispered to my consciousness, said low : 
" May I not know of what to you it speaks — 
That curious rock with its two tow'ring pines ? 
I saw a sudden light flash in your face. 
And fancied it held meanings deep for you, 
Which we of duller senses fail to view." 



WmK 117 

I turned, and smiling in her face, replied : 
" Your thought was true. Those trees, sprung from 

a cleft 
Of that hoar rock, and clinging to the soil 
With insecux-e, but yet tenacious hold, 
And breasting thus the storms of fifty years, 
Speak not alone to me of buoyant life, 
Which still exists, though slight its tenure be, 
But, sheltered as they are by sister trees, 
And hillside steep, from fiercest stress of storm, 
They teach me this : That God, who placed them thus, 
Thus guarded them disaster from, and blight ; 
Who tempers to the lamb just shorn. His winds, 
So shields His frail ones from life's rougher storms, 
Lest in their weakness they uprooted be. 
While they whose hold on Him is firm and strong. 
Must bear the force of wildest tempest blast ; 
And bend to fiercest gales ; and bow the head 
To harshest beat of sorrow's icy rain. 
So, stronger for the conflict thus endured 
In patience, they become ; and so, more sure 
And firm their hold on Him is proven ; so. 
The discipline, though sharp and stern howe'er. 
And in its workings seeming so severe, 



118 WINE. 

Prepares them for the work they are to do ; 
Fits them to shield his tender ones from pain ; 
And teaches them to live is not in vain." 

The girl sighed deeply. " Oh ! it is worth while 
That lesson to be taught ! " she softly breathed. 
" God has to rae at times seemed so unjust, 
In giving one a happy, peaceful life. 
Free from all worriments, and free from pain ; 
And others, nobler still, and worthier far 
Of all good gifts, of happiness, and love, 
Lives filled with sorrow and bereavement, filled 
With constant strife, which death alone has stilled." 

"And me ! " I answered. " Bitterly, indeed, 
As only those to whom sad lives are given 
Could feel it, have I felt God's justice small 
In portioning to some all joy and peace, 
To others pain and struggle. Yet I Tcnow 
That He is Justice, Goodness, Mercy, Love, 
Impersonated ; while I find it hard — 
Ah, He alone can understand hoio hard 
I find it — always, ahoays to believe, 
And feel that what He sends is right and best ; 



WINE. 119 

And sent in love ; — lo recollect ihe test 
Of His deep love, and our adoption, too, 
Are these sore cbast'nings and rebukes, we find 
So grievous and so hard to bear. Thus, blind 
With pain, impatient of the heavy strokes 
Which cut so deeply our poor quiv'ring hearts, 
We do not see God's face of pitying love 
Which bends above us — do not see the Hand 
Which, though relxictant, gives the stinging blow, 
But gives it all in kindness, not in wrath. 
And only when the chast'ning stroke is past, 
And pain is stilled, do we perceive the gain 
It brings to us in strength, and faith, and trust. 
Sow much more deeply have the roots of life 
Shot downward for the tempest and the strife.''^ 

"I never saw it thus before !" she said. 
" I am so glad to see it, and to know 
Life's storms are needful, good, and sent in love ; 
And not in anger or injustice sent 
By One whose pow'r is boundless in extent." 

" Boundless His pow'r, but boundless too His love, 
His mercy, and His justice. But be glad 



120 WINE. 

Indeed, and thankful, if you've learned a truth 
So wide and so important, with such ease. 
Which many only learn beneath the hand 
Of stern Experience, whose flaming brand 
Burns on the heart, in letters red with blood, 
These deep, grand truths." 

Ere she could make reply, 
Said Mr. Denham : " Come ! I'm curious 
To know the subject which you two are thus 
Discussing with such earnestness of tone, 
And gravity of aspect. 'Tis not fair. 
Miss Constance, nor unselfish, thus to keep, 
For your own pleasure, and for yours alone, 
The peai'ls of fine, poetic thought, our friend 
In her sweet graciousness to you may lend." 

The girl looked in my eyes with knowing smile ; 
Then answered saucily : " 'Tis not worth while 
Gn every one such precious pearls to waste. 
Beside, how know you but the gems were mine. 
And lent to her instead ?" 

He laughed at this. 
"Tour pearls are purest water, well I know ; 
Milk-white with innocence, and hope, and trust ; 



WINE. 121 

But hers are opaline — 'pearls with a soul,' 

And show at every turn prismatic fires, 

Now red, now gold, now violet, now blue ; 

One finds it difficult to guess what hue 

The next turn will develop. Well I know 

No thought of yours would make your face so grave, 

Or wear such deep intentness ; so I guess 

Some word of hers, struck from her heart's deep fires, 

Has touched the hidden springs of your desires, 

Hopes, longings, doubts — perhaps all undefined, 

Until her thought awoke them to your mind." 

She smiled again, but nothing more vouchsafed 
In explanation of our private speech ; 
And with her hand still lightly in my arm, 
We left the tree-crowned bowlder, and pursued 
Our way the mountain toward ; and the rest 
At leisure followed in our steps. And so 
Ere long we reached again the dimpling pool, 
Where soft the summer shadows lay, and cool. 

There, lightly rocking on the glinting tide, 
A tiny shallop we ere long espied ; 
With awning flutt'ring in the gentle breeze ; 
6 



132 WINE. 

With carven prow, and gilded stern, on which 

In graceful scrolls we read her name — " The Witch." 

Then Sylvie clasped her hands in eager joy, 
And breathless said : " Oh ! there must fairies be 
Here in these woods ; for see ! they've left behind 
One of their barges rocking on the lake, 
And tied with cobweb rope to yonder stake." 

And Constance, too, whose lustrous eyes were wide 
With both surprise and pleasure, looked from me 
To him, her friend, who, smiling, lingered near, 
And said, while brighter grew her blush-rose cheek : 
"Ah, this is kind ! for it is you, I see. 
We are to thank for this unthought-of treat ; 
How did you know we girls had longed to float 
On those still waves in such a fairy boat ?" 

The man laughed low at her expressed delight, 
A richness in his tone which I, at least, 
Had never heard before. And then he said : 
" This for you girls, and for the poet, this !" 
And led the way a little space beyond 
Where we had paused, and showed us, in the arch 



WINE. 123 

Where to our view he had appeared that day 

When first wo met, a tiny, rustic bower, 

Built from the fragrant hemlock boughs, which still 

Their dark plumes wore ; in form not all unlike 

An Indian wigwam ; from whose pointed top 

Within, a rustic basket, overflown 

With wildwood vines, and ferns, and modest flowers, 

Hung pendant ; underneath it stood, in place, 

A tiny table, rustic like the rest. 

Which bore a vase of water-lilies sweet ; 

A book or two, in bindings blue and gold ; 

A writing pad, and pencils pointed fine. 

An easy chair of wickei'-work which stood 

Beside, was cushioned soft with thick, rich moss. 

The op'ning tow'rd the lake took in as well 

The view our friend had found so picturesque. 

When, at our banquet, on that soft June day, 

He came upon us here. 

Touched at the thought 
So delicate and flatt'ring, which all this 
So plainly spoke, I raised my dimming eyes, 
And, silent, laid my hand in his ; for thus 
Alone could I my pleased surprise express, 
At what his hands had wrought. The laugh was low, 



124 WINE. 

And soft, and rich, with which he made response. 
His pressure of my hand was close and warm. 
And then he said : " Now will you try the boat, 
Which Sylvie says the fairies left — no doubt 
Expressly for our use ? " 

" I do not know !" 
I answered him with a reluctance feigned. 
" What think you, Constance ? is it safe to trust 
A ' Witch,' and a magician too, who rears, 
'Twould seem, a castle at a word ? " 

" No, no ! " 
He laughing said, " Not a magician, I ! 
And what you graciously a ' castle ' style, 
Is but a wirficam, for a poet built. 
By one who claims a share in all the spoils 
Of poesy, which hither may be brought 
By that aggressive warrior, plumed Thought." 

" So come ! " he added ; "and I-guarantee 
You shall not be bewitched, although the boat 
Be built in Elf-land, and by fairies launched, 
As Sylvie tells us." 

" Can you guarantee 
As. much for all the party, as for me ?" 



WINE. 135 

I ask him low, and in his face I glance 
With smile of mischief, as he takes my hand 
To lead me to the boat. 

A deep, slow flush 
Mounts upward to his brow, and in his eyes, 
Which droop to meet my own, a conscious light 
Dawns slowly, but he nothing says. 

And so 
We each, in turn, the fairy shallo]) try ; 
First I — then Sylvie — Constance last of all, 
And longest. Slowly o'er the crystal lake, 
Which breaks in dimples 'neath the slender oars, 
The two float idly in the dainty " Witch,'''' 
While I, within the " Wigwam's " shade at rest, 
Toy with the pencils lying temptingly 
Beneath my hand ; and sketch some outlines rough 
Of yon fair scene which spreads before me there ; 
And Avatch the pretty idyl write itself 
Before my eyes, while I with pleasure read. 
The story is not new — I've read it oft ; 
Each detail is familiar as the trill 
Of wood-thrush on my Wigwam now alight ; 
As is the blue that bounds the nether space. 
Do I not know the blissful thrill and throb 



126 WINE. 

Which sends the crimson to that girl's fair cheek ? 
The fluttering pulse ? the tremulous heart-beat ? 
The shy half-consciousness when, careless, meet, 
Or accidentally, those thrilling palms ? 
Do I not know that ne'er were days so sweet. 
Or nights so perfect, since the sun first set 
Beyond fair Eden's rivers, as are these 
Which make this golden summer ? 

Better yet 
Than they — the man, at least ! his eyes seem held, 
Lest he should read the secret which the girl 
Would fain shut deep within her modest heart ; 
But, wanting a coquette's deep wiles and arts, 
Fails in controlling the electric tide. 
Which, surging upward, paints its glowing hues 
Upon her cheek's soft pallor ; so betrays, 
Unwittingly, the secret she would fain 
Hide from all eyes ; which scarcely to herself 
Is known as yet, or at the least confessed — 
So sly the god who steals within the heart. 
And, ere we are aware, plants deep his dart. 

Thus reading, as within my fragrant bower 
I sit alone, the pencil in my hand 



WmE. 127 

'Gins trace some words upon the jjaper white ; 
Then, gaining force, thus rapidly doth write : 

BEWITCHED. 

A crystal sea, which lightly washed a shore 

In Fairy-land, upon its bosom bore 

A tiny barque, where ne'er rocked ship before. 

In Elf-land built, by Fairies launched and sailed, 

It yielded to each zephyr that prevailed, 

And through the waters bright its light keel trailed. 

Two mortals paused the mystic sea beside ; 
And each the barque, by Fairies built, espied, 
Where light it rocked upon the buoyant tide. 

They stood, delighted, by the witching view ; 
They longed to ride those waves ; yet either knew 
A spell was on the ship, and waters blue. 

But, standing thus beside the crystal sea — 

" Wilt dare the charm, and enter, love ?" asked he. 

Her eyes replied : "Aye, anywhere, with thee !" 

He took her hand, which thrilled his own to meet, 
And placed her, blushing, in the shallop's seat ; 
Then entered, glad, and found enchantment sweet. 

For, rocking idly on the sea's soft swell, 

Each felt the influence of the fairy spell, 

Yet neither dreamed they were bewitched as well. 



128 WINE. 

That over thera the glamour of the hour 
Had fallen, with enchantment's magic power, 
Which bound and blinded — such its fatal dower. 

But when they wearied of the swelling sea, 
And from the m5^stic charm would fain be free, 
They felt the net which shackled liberty. 

And nevermore could they escape the spell 
Which o'er thera in the fairy shallop fell ; 
For once bewitcJied none can the thrall dispel. 

The pad dropped from my hand, and lay upon 
The table, unregarded, while my thought 
Swept backward through the summer, to the days, 
Not many months agone, when I too dared 
The spell I just had sung, as rashly, too, 
As those now rocking in that tiny boat, 
Unconscious of the magic which the hour 
Is throwing o'er them with resistless power. 
God grant their voyage be less rough than mine — 
Their dream become reality more sweet ! 
And if they may not 'scape the netted thrall, 
Be it so fine its meshes cannot gall ! 

They neared the shore, and slowly paced the path 
Which hither led, and soon the Wigwam door 



WINE. 129 

Was darkened with their shadows. From the hands 

Of Constance, drooped the delicate limp heads 

Of water-lilies, wet with drops of spray. 

And all her sweet face was suffused with light — 

The glamour of the fairy spell, which still 

Was ling'ring o'er her maiden sense. While he-^ 

He, too, I saw, was not insensible 

To the bewitching influence of the hour. 

And yet his face a fine, vague trouble wore — 

Or so I fancied. But ere long his eye 

Fell on the pad with idle lines scrawled o'er, 

And with a smile he said : " Ah, I perceive 

The warrior Thought has brought to you some spoils, 

Which I, by our agreement, am to share — 

Or by my stipulation, at the least. 

To which your silence gave a kind consent. 

I'll therefore take ray portion now, an' so 

It pleases you, good Queen." 

My hand I half 

Extended, to prevent his capturing 

The " spoils " my thought had brought me, but again 

Withdrew it, and permitted him to read 

The careless words my pencil there had traced. 

And as he read, I watched his mobile face, 
6* 



180 WINE. 

Where once again the slow flush 'rose and flamed ; 
While plainer now became the troubled lines 
I fancied I had seen, until they grew 
To marks of actual pain. Upon my face 
He bent one long and searching glance, as he 
The last words read, then coolly tore the leaf 
Which bore m}'- pencil's trac'ry, from the pad, 
And folding it, within his pocket book 
Most carefully he placed it. 

" Well ! indeed 
That's cool ! " I said. " Does what you call your 

* share ' 
Include the whole of what my loyal Thought 
Shall to my Wigwam bring ? " 

" In this case, yes ! " 
He answered, with a laugh which seemed half forced. 
And when from Constance came a like protest — 
A plea that she might share the " spoils " as well, 
He answered, with another low, forced laugh : 
" Nay ! this is mine — the whole ! I recollect 
Who was so selfish as to keep the pearls 
Bestowed on her in yonder wood below, 
And would not, e'en with me, their luster share. 
Revenge is sweet. Think you I can forbear 



WINE. 131 

To taste it, when T have it in my power ? 

Ask me perhaps in more auspicious hour, 

And I may grant your wish. Remember, though, 

I do not promise ; and that it must be 

Far in the future that you make your plea." 

He spoke with playfulness, and yet I felt 
An undertone of troubled pain beneath 
The light words lay. I knew my idle lines 
His mind had wakened to full consciousness 
Of all the peril which these summer days 
Might possibly be pregnant with, to hex* — 
The girl who stood beside him, wrapped around 
With innocence and guileless truth — e'en though 
He from all danger might himself be free. 
But this I did not think ; yet I confess 
That, if he loved her, I could scarcely guess 
Why such a consciousness should cause distress ; 
And if he doubted, I felt well assured 
He would not, long ; and if he loved her not — 
Ah, then — God pity her ! but even then 
'Twere better that the waking come at once. 
And so no more I vexed myself at thought 
Of what might be the outcome of the lines 



132 wmE. 

I carelessly had written, and he read ; 
But felt that in his honor ind his truth 
I might all confidence repose, and know 
That he'd take counsel of the right, and act 
As that should dictate. 

All the day there seemed 
A soft constraint upon him, and a deep. 
Unwonted thoughtfulness, which now and then 
Became abstraction for a littlp space, 
From which he 'roused himself impatiently. 
I noticed, too, he bent a furtive glance 
At times on Constance, and I fancied he 
Would fain be certain just how far her thought 
Had trenched beyond the friendship he had sought. 

If Constance felt his manner's subtle change, 
She but betrayed it in the shy reserve 
Which led her at ray side to keep her place, 
All down the homeward way. He said good-bye 
Before our gate, and promising again 
To see us soon, with one more ling'ring glance 
At Constance' half averted face, walked on, 
And soon was lost to sight. 

We sat this eve 



WINE. 133 

As often, in the poi'ch, but he came not, 

As has of late his frequent custom been ; 

And while Miss Sylvie, with exhaustless flow 

Of repartee, tormented and bewitched 

By turns the youth who lingered at her side, 

I saw that Constance scarcely could repress 

The restlessness which grew yet more intense, 

With every passing moment ; till at last 

Herself she seated on the step, and leaned 

Her cheek against my knee ; while I caressed 

Her throbbing temples, and ray cool hand pressed 

Upon her burning check. I think she felt 

The sympathy I uttered only thus ; 

For, ere she rose, she softly drew my hand 

To meet the ling'ring touch of her sweet lips, 

And pressed it warmly, ere it was released, 

In both of hers. 

But soon we said good-night. 
And separated. For the air grew chill, 
And heavy lay the mists on vale and hill ; 
And sleep came soft to each — and all was still ! 



184 WINE. 



III. 



" There are some tilings hard to understand ; 
Oil, help me, my God, to trost in Thee 1" 



All day the swiftly-dropping summer rain 
Has fall'n with refi'eshment on the flowers, 
And waving trees, and rip'ning grass and grain ; 
Each drinking thirstily the grateful drops, 
And, holding 'neath them all their dusty robes, 
Have washed them clean, to greet the sun's warm 

glance, 
When from the dripping clouds at last he breaks. 
All day the mists have wrapped the mountain peaks ; 
And o'er the valleys brooded low and soft ; 
Or, lifting their white wings, have upward flown 
A little space, to flutter down again. 
And poise their quiv'ring pinions o'er the vales. 
All day the skies have worn their robes of gray, 
!Nor once displayed the azure hid away. 

Beneath my window, on the moss-grown boards 
Which roof the porch wherein we sat last eve, 



WmE. 135 

The rain has pattered soft the whole day through ; 

Now with a dreary monotone, which wakes 

A corresponding gloom within my heart ; 

Now with a rhythmic harmony of sound, 

Which backward sends my mem'ry, through the years, 

To one once loved — to one resigned with pain — 

Who loved to list the music of the rain. 

Shut in my room, while softly beats without 
The summer storm, the constant surge of thought 
Through the remote and nearer past, has brought 
An avalanche of olden pain — and new — 
Upon my shrinking heart. The old a dull 
Sad throbbing wakes ; the new a sharp, wild thrill. 
That beats and quivers through each tortured pulse. 
With all the pow'r a present anguish owns — 
And breaks at times in sighs, and tears, and moans. 

So strong its pow'r, so deep and near the pain. 
When Constance in my room this evening came, 
And silence for a space between us fell, 
I, quite forgetful of her presence here. 
To Mem'ry's whispers lent a weary ear, 
Until my heart again throbbed fierce and strong, 



136 WII^E. 

And burning tears, unheeded, filled my eyes. 

And then her loving arms were 'round my waist, 

And kneeling at my side, her eyes all moist 

With sympathy, she looked up in my face, 

And said, her sweet lips trembling as she spoke : 

" Dear friend, since that first morn on which I came 

A stranger to you all, and in the porch 

Presumed to join you, where you stood to view 

The scene now so familiar to us grown. 

And, turning, in my face you sweetly smiled, 

I've loved you, as I think few women love 

Another woman, hoAve'er sweet and good. 

In that first hour, I fancied, with a thrill. 

How sweet 'twould be if I might call you friend : 

If I might sometime kneel beside you thus, 

And looking in your face, read in your eyes 

The love I give to you in kind returned. 

And you were gracious truly, and have made 

Most happy to me all these summer days 

I've spent with you, here, in these mountain wilds. 

Thus loving you, how could I fail to see 

The shadows often deepen in your eyes ; 

The sadness gather o'er your sweet, kind face ! 

Thus loving you, how could I fail to feel 



WINE. 137 

A pang of sorrow for the grief I knew 

Lay bitter at your lieart ; Aviiich you betrayed 

In dim, pained eyes, and quiv'ring, ash-pale lips ! 

I never have presumed to even guess 

The nature of so deep and strong a woe. 

But now, dear friend, I've grown more bold, and ask 

You give to sorrow words, and let my love 

And sympathy -svhat balm it may, though small, 

Apply, to heal the wound your heart has known, 

Nor suffer thus in silence and alone." 

Her sweet voice faltered, and she ceased to speak. 
I gazed a moment in her loving eyes. 
While silently the tears fell from my own — 
Then turned away my face. I could not tell 
This young and happy girl, whose untried heart 
Had known no deeper pain than that she felt 
At sight of mine, the story of my grief. 
I could not put in words — whose utmost sense 
Her heart must fail to comprehend, until 
She too has knelt in agony beside 
Vailed, weeping Sorrow, in Grief's innermost 
And darkest sanctuary — all the pain, 
And all the dreary sickness of the soul, 



138 WINE. 

Which makes my days so wretched, and my nights 
Seem endless, often, wearying for the morn. 
And so I turned my face away from hers, 
And made no answer to her pleading words. 

So, for a time, she still in silence knelt 
Beside me, with her soft and tender cheek 
Pressed to my shoulder ; then she said again : 
" You will not think, dear, that I wish to know 
Why thus, day after day, I see you grieve. 
From curious motives, for you've surely found 
My love is far too tender and sincere ; 
And that I hold you in such rev'rence, dear, 
I could not on your sorrow thus intrude, 
Save for the hope that in my sympathy 
You might perchance a moment's solace find, 
And that the utt'rance of your bitter grief, 
Might give your heart at least a slight relief. 
For your sake, dear, your confidence I seek. 
I've heard it said, ' The grief that doth not speak, 
Whispers the o'er-f raught heart, and bids it break.' " 

I smiled with bitterness. " 3Iy heart," I said, 
" Is made of sterner stuff. If pain, intense 



WmE. 139 

And constant ; grief, unspoken by the lips 

That often writhe with agony ; regrets 

As sharp as unavailing ; and a stern 

And bitter sense of loss, borne silently, 

Could break a heart, mine had long since been dead. 

Nor proved its life by quiv'ring now with pain 

Which to allay the utmost skill were vain." 

I turned, and took her face between my hands. 
And looked into the eyes as wet as mine. 
*' Dear child," I said, " I do not doubt your love, 
Nor your discretion. Doubt not you would prove 
Your interest by list'ning to the tale 
Which I could tell you, would it aught avail, 
With eyes as dim as these my kisses press. 
And soft heart throbbing hard with tenderness 
And sorrow at my pain. Know you would give 
Sweet testimony of your sympathy. 
In such caressing as the sorest heart 
Could not but leap with gladness to receive. 
But still, I cannot tell you what you ask. 
When you have walked with Sorrow, and have felt 
Her hand pressed heavily upon your heart. 
Striking therefrom the buoyancy and life ; 



140 WINE. 

When you have seen your fairest hopes lie dead ; 
When you have sat with bowed and aching head 
Before the ruins of some idol, reared 
On highest pedestal within your heart ; 
When you have known just what it is to part 
With one who seems a portion of yourself, 
And know it is for life, then come to me. 
And you shall ask me, darling, what you will, 
And I will do my best your wish t' fulfill." 

Still gazing in her sweet and changeful face, 
I jsaused a moment ; then I said again — 
And with a pang of sharp, prophetic pain : 
" My love, I fear that time will come too soon 1 
Your heart is far too deep, too rich with love, 
Your nature too intense, too delicate 
In tone and fiber, to escape the pain 
Which is the heritage of such a soul. 
As I was saying to you yester-morn. 
It is the strong who ever suffer most, 
Not those who are the weakest. Strength to love, 
Strength to enjoy, to grasp, to hope, to trust ; 
And strength to suffer and resign, to feel 
The sharpest tortures of despair and pain, 



WINE 141 

Go hand in hand together, and are found 

But in the souls which God makes strong and brave, 

Endows with sensitiveness most profound. 

And with all delicate perceptions, and 

All sweet and subtle depths of tenderness. 

'Tis only such that ever stand alone 

And face to face with sorrow. Only such 

Who learn life's deepest lessons, which are given 

To discipline the heart, refine the soul, 

To elevate the mind, subdue the will, 

And to perfect the character. And these 

Reach heights sublime, which weaker souls, or hearts 

Though happier, can ne'er attain. Reach heights 

Where Happiness doth never lead the way, 

Though, chastened and refined, she sometimes waits 

Upon the motmtain-top they gain through toil, 

The highest and the purest hopes t' fulfill 

Of those who've learned to ' suffer and be still.'". 

"As you have learned !" she said, with tender kiss>^ 

" Ah, no, dear child !" I quickly made reply. 
" I learned it once, and found upon the heights 
To which I climbed through suff'ring stern and strong, 



143 WINE. 

If not pure Happiness, with beaming eye, 

And cheek aflush with deep and perfect joy, 

Yet, waiting there, was sweet-faced, calm Content. 

But now I, suff'ring, fret, and oft rebel 

At what I once bore patiently and well." 

" But still in silence ! Dear, is it worth while 
To be so strong, if one in consequence 
Must tread such deeps of sorrow ? To attain 
To even such proud heights, if but through toil, 
And pain, and strife, the mountain top is reached ? 
Is not the happier lot that of the weak. 
Or the phlegmatic, though they never know 
The deeper and intenser joys which we. 
Whom you call stronger, may experience — 
Since they, you say, will likewise be debarred 
From all the pain we strong ones find so hard ?" 

I smiled at this. I knew she would not give 
To her own questions an assent ; that she 
Was proud to feel that strength was giv'n to her 
In larger measure than it is to most ; 
That she, if bidd'n to choose between the two — 
Strength, with its heritage of bitter pain. 



WINE. 143 

And ecstasy of happiness as well ; 

Or weakness, with its lighter griefs and joys — 

That strength would be her proud, spontaneous choice. 

Something like this I answered. Adding then : 
" If you six months agone had questioned thus, 
With naught of hesitation I had said — 
* Aye, well loorth tohileP Still on the mountain top 
Whose outlook was so broad, its view so grand ; 
Still satisfied and filled with rare content — 
The pain, and long, sore struggle all behind — 
I felt 'twas good to suflPer, this to reach. 
But now — again in Sorrow's troubled deeps, 
From which the heights loom far beyond, above ; 
And fearful that my oft-tried, suff'ring heart 
Holds not reserve of strength to do its part 
To reach the altitude it lately lost ; 
And weary of the struggle, I perchance 
Might answer — ' IVay, oh, nay P could I forget 
That this life is not all — is but, indeed. 
The stepping-stone laid midway in the brook 
Between what was, and what is yet to be, 
By which we reach a shore of silver sand. 
Which leads us to a fair and goodly land, 



144 WINE. 

Whose smoothest reaches, and whose lowest hills 

Stretch higher than the topmost mountain peaks 

We here, by toilsome climb, may hope to reach. 

Rememb'ring this — and that through suffering 

Our souls grow strong, refined, and purified ; 

That 'tis a wise and tender Hand which sends 

The discipline so grievous to be borne ; 

That it is thus He fits us to enjoy 

The higher pleasures of that goodly world — 

And thinking of that life, so full and sweet, 

So perfect in its joy, and so complete 

In satisfaction and content, I should 

Unto my soul's most deep convictions, gained 

By years of strife and pain, prove most untrue, 

Were I to answer ' N'ay, oh, nay ! ' to you." 

" 'Tis not in vain then, dear, you once have stood 
Upon the heights — e'en though it may be true. 
As you have said, that now you ^dwell below — 
Since what you there have learned you still must 
know ! " 

"Nay, not in vain, perhaps — and yet — and yet — 
Of what avail once to have gained a safe 



WINE. 145 

And pleasant harbor, sheltered from the storms 
Which marked the passage thither, if, indeed, 
The next tide lifts your frail and battered bark, 
And bears it backward to the stormy sea 
So lately crossed with peril, where you find' 
Your sore-tried strength inadequate to breast 
The waves that bear you farther from the shore — 
Or dangers just escaped to brave once more ! " 

"Dear friend, your strength is greater than you 
know. 
Far higher now, although in Sorrow's deeps. 
You stand, than I, who those precip'tous steeps 
Have scarce begun to climb. So high, indeed, 
I wonder, darling, you can reach my hand. 
From that grand altitude at which you stand." 

I kissed her for reply, and silence came 
Between us for a moment ; then I said : 
" You say my strength is greater than I know j 
To me it seems but weakness, and the way 
I once passed o'er to reach the mountain top. 
So rugged I can climb it never more. 
The eyes of Faith are dim ; Faith, whose clear sight 



146 WINE. 

I once had thought no pain could make less bright ; 
And Hope, once ever joyous at my side, 
Sustaining, cheering, now to me is dead ; 
And I, despairing, seek no more to reach 
The place from which the hand of human pain, 
And human longing, has beguiled my soul. 
And left me, bruised and bleeding, on the plain, 
Far, far below the height I hoped to gain." 

" Ah, but I know 'twill not be always thus. 
Your open wounds must sometime cease to flow. 
And you, so full of strength, must from the blow — 
Whose cruel force I truly can but guess — 
Rally at last, and reach diviner heights 
Than those from which you've wandered for a time. 
My heart is all untried in sorrow's fire ; 
Its hurts are merely trifling, when compared 
To those from which you suffer, but I Jcnow 
God, who has led you once by higher paths 
Than many walk, will never leave you thus, 
Stricken, and sorrowing, and weak with pain. 
To lie unsuccored on life's bleak, bare plain. 
I'm sure the lovely patience, trust and faith 
You once have shown, are not forgot by Him ; 



WINE. Ut 

And tliat He leads you still, though Faith is dim ; 
And Hope has, like a traitor, flown your side 
His love is left, dear friend, love that abides. 
And shall ere long bind up your bleeding wounds. 
I know the time will come when you again 
Shall feel your olden strength in every vein." 

" Sweet comforter," I said, " perhaps 'tis so ! 
God knows I do not doubt His will, or power 
Thus to restore the jjeace my heart has lost ; 
I but mistrust my own exhausted strength. 
My nature's weakened forces, which forbid 
The effort so essential on my part, 
If I would hope to give my weary heart. 
Now on the waves of passion fiercely tossed, 
The ease, and peace, and rest it lately lost. 
God never works alone in human souls ; 
He comforts, aids, sustains, sometimes controls ; 
He guides, and leads us ; but He bids us tread 
By force of inborn strength the path marked out ; 
He lifts us when we fall ; supports, and cheers 
When our weak steps are falt'ring by the way ; 
But only bears the lambs upon His breast. 
And so, although His pow'r to give me rest 



148 WINE. 

I do not doubt, nor yet His gracious loill, 
I'm of my strength to climb distrustful still." 

" But it will come ! For will not time do much 
To heal all gaping wounds — yea, even such 
As those you, darling, bear ? As I just said. 
Of this I nothing know by trial sad ; 
But if the pain you suffered in the past 
Could find, though not till long, relief at last — 
Relief so perfect you could even joy 
Thus to have borne and suffered, may you not. 
Dear friend, believe that there will come an hour 
When you shall break the bands of sorrow giim, 
And rise triumphant ? When the faith now dim 
Shall grow e'en clearer-visioned than before, 
And joy, and hope, and trust be yours once more ? " 

" I cannot tell ! It may, perchance, be so. 
God only knows, and time alone can show. 
I only see the darkness is intense 
Which now enfolds me ; I can only feel 
My heart lie nerveless 'neath the cruel blow 
It has sustained ; that from it courage, hope, 
And life seem stricken evermore. But see ! 



WnTB. 149 

The clouds are scattering from the glowing west. 
While with his usual pomp the King of Day 
Sinks fast to his repose. In what deep shade 
That lovely valley lies, while bright upon 
Those lofty mountain peaks, the golden light 
Rests like a crown of glory ! Thus in life ! 
Those in the valley dwell in shadows deep ; 
Those who have climbed the tow'ring mountain-steep 
May bathe in radiance of the setting sun, 
And joy in light although the day be done." 

I sighed, regretting still the lofty height 
From which my feet had wandered ; then I turned 
And looked on her who still knelt at my side. 
Her face was rosy as the sunset clouds ; 
Her eyes were scintillant with eager light, 
As with a smile she looked up in my face, 
And said : " Dear friend, although the whole day 

through. 
The skies have shown us only gray — no blue — 
The clouds are broken now, and taking flight. 
Heaven's own soft blue revealing to our sight. 
Dear one, believe * At ene it shall be light V " 



150 WINE, 

She kissed me softly, ling'ringly, then went ; 
But left within my heart of sweet content 
More than for months its troubled pulse had known ; 
By one of God's own babes truth had been shown, 
And she had giv'n more comfort than she knew — 
This young, fair girl, untried in grief, 'tis true. 
But with such full, rich store of faith divine. 
Of hope a.nd trust, it could but strengthen mine. 

" Dear child !" I said. " May He who portions out 
To all, the measure of His discipline. 
Of pain and sorrow send her tender heart 
Only such trial as it needs, to make 
The sunset of her life as bright and fair 
As that which glows in beauty over there !'* 



PART THIRD. 
RUE. 



PART THIRD. 



RUE. 



I. 



" Love I sweet, sweet, thy summer dream ; 
But deathly bitter was the waking. 
O Heaven ! hast thou a peace supreme 
Enough to pay a heart for breaking ?" 



The August moonlight, cool, and still, and pale, 

Lies soft on mount and meadow, hill and vale j 

Picks out the carven fret-work of the trees. 

Which sway and flutter in the evening breeze ; 

Kisses the faces of the sweet, shy flowers, 

"Which all illumined grow beneath its teach ; 

And lingers tenderly around the two, 

7* [153] 



154 BJIE. 

Who, by yon swinging gate short space away, 
Now half in shade, now in the full, rich light, 
Are long in uttering their sweet good-night. 

Two weeks have passed since that fair day we spent 
Beside the mountain lake, and found, surprised. 
The tiny boat upon its waves afloat ; 
When I, for Mr, Denham, careless wrote 
The lines that woke his sleeping consciousness. 
And showed him what might be to him, to her. 
The unfoi'eseen results of these sweet days 
Of unrestrained companionship, to each 
So dear and pleasant — but to one, at least. 
So dang'rous too — and this bright eve's the first 
In which he has, since then, on us conferred 
The pleasure of his presence. We have missed 
In all our morning rambles, his kind face, 
Hispleasant talk, intelligent and gay, 
His helpful hand along the rugged way ; 
And all our evening gath'rings in the porch 
Where hitherto he's joined us oft, have seemed 
Quite incomplete without him. To us all — 
But most to Constance. Hide it as she might 
By gay assumption of the cheerful ease 



RWE. 155 

Which we had learned to know habitual, 
I saw she wearied for his presence ; knew 
The days seemed endless while he lingered far ; 
And that the restlessness I know so well, 
"Which is so hard to bear, to hide, to quell, 
Had banished all the quiet from her heart. 
And from the brilliant days, and misty nights. 
Their wonted peace and sweetness. 

In her eyes. 
So soft, so dark and lustrous, had, 'tis true, 
A deeper splendor come ; but in them, too, 
A vague dissatisfaction beamed ; a faint, 
Dim, troubled light they had not known till now. 
But which I read too well. " Ah, child !" I thought, 
" ' Pier lot is on you, silent tears to weep, 
And suflE'ring smiles to wear through sorrow's hour ; 
And sunless riches from affections deep 
To pour on broken reeds — a wasted shower ! 
And to make idols, and to find them clay ! 
And to bewail that worship.' Woman's lot ! 
So hard, so bitter, full of longing pain, 
Which few^ among her finest souls escape." 
For though this cloud she felt enwrap her now, 
Might be a shadow brief, and " flung before 



156 BUE. 

From some effulgent substance out of sight ;'* 

Although this new-born love might find at last 

A full fruition ; though its object prove 

As generous and noble, true, and kind, 

As now we think him, yet I knew e'en then 

There would be flaws, to which not even love 

Forever could be blind ; and that a day 

Would come when she would find her idol clay ; 

That she had poured upon a broken reed 

A show'r of love, that not e'en he could quite 

Appreciate or understand. For this 

Was " Woman's Lot ;" and must be borne by all 

Whose hearts, like hers, are deep, and warm, and 

strong ; 
And who have suffered over them to fall 
Love's most bewitching, but deceptive thrall. 

We sat this eve within the porch below — 
I, Mrs. Disbrow, Constance, Sylvia, 
When up the path there came young Mrs. Brown, 
And, running on before, her lovely boy. 
Just rounding his sweet second year. A child 
One longs to clasp and kiss at every glance. 
A merry, sweet, and charming boy, with eyes 



BUE. 167 

As blue as April violets ; and mouth 

So sweet, and arch, and kissable, with teeth 

Like tiny pearls in ruby coral set. 

Round, dimpled cheeks, and broad and open brow, 

With loose, soft, clustered rings of golden hair. 

A perfect child, which wins one's love at once ; 

And now came, eager for the petting sweet, 

And merry frolic he was sure to meet. 

As up the steps he bounded, and I caught 
The lovely boy within my clasping arms. 
And covered his sweet face with kisses, while 
His mother, smiling, proud, stood by, I chanced 
At Mi's. Disbrow carelessly to glance. 
And saw her whiten to the lips, then rise, 
And pass within the house. With deep surprise 
I glanced at Constance, and she too was pale ; 
But answered to my look ; " It is the child. 
My sister lost a lovely, two-year boy. 
Scarce one brief year ago, in whom her heart 
Was utterly bound up. For six long weeks 
She held him in her arms, and saw him fade — 
Her sweet wild-flow'r — and knew that he must die. 
Yet would not give him up. * He must not die. 



^168 RUE. 

I cannot, will not lose him ! * she would say. 

*Why did God give him me, if but to take 

Him from me now, and break my heart ! He's mine I 

God has no right to take him from my arms ; 

I will not, cannot give him up ! ' And so 

Day after day she strove against grim Death ; 

But he was pitiless, and came at last, 

And tore her idol from her clinging grasp. 

'Twas terrible to hear her thus rebel 

Against God's love and power, knowing well 

How impotent she was to stay the Hand 

That coveted her darling j but 'twas worse 

To see her agony of grief, and her 

Delirium of despair, when, marble cold 

And still, her lovely boy lay in her arms, 

And gave back no response to her wild kiss. 

Awhile we thought she would go mad, or die. 

The strain had been so long, and so intense ; 

Her grief was so rebellious and so deep ; 

But she at last grew calm — though not e'en yet 

Is she submissive to the will of God, 

Yf ho took her darling from hei\ So she makes 

Her burden all the harder to be borne. 

And not e'en yet can she endure the sight 



ETTE. 159 

Of happy mothers with their lovely babes. 
And though she little says, I know the thought 
Which is most bitter, is that she's bereaved 
Of her one lamb, while other hearts o'erflow 
With mother-love, and other homes are sweet 
With baby voices, and their patt'ring feet." 

The little story touched us to the heart, 
And made us feel a pity most profound 
For that poor grieving mother ; and I said — ■ 
As closer in my arms I clasped the child, 
Who had, unconscious, woke her grief afresh, 
And with an envious pain and passion filled 
The heart, undisciplined, rebellious still; 
" 'Tis but another instance of the truth — 
So sad to us who suffer, but to us 
Who trust God's love through all, and understand 
'Tis but in tenderness His chast'ning hand 
Is laid upon our lives, so sweet withal — 
That while to,one 'tis giv'n to grasp and keep 
The fullness of desire ; to deeply drink — 
Scarce conscious of the sweetness of the draught, 
Because familiar grown — the joys of life ; 
From other lips the goblet soon is dashed, 



160 RUE. 

And shattered lies, its ruby wine all spilled ; 
"While they who fain would drink, thus early find 
To them 'tis given only to resign 
All that their hearts have coveted or gained. 
Ah, happy they, who, while they suffer sore, 
Sweetly submit, and, bending to His will, 
Find He can make the balance even, still !" 

A step familiar, springing, brisk, now rang 
Upon the walk, the gate closed with a clang, 
And glancing up we saw the well-known form 
Of Mr. Denham, as he swift approached 
The place where we were sitting. As I said, 
Two weeks have passed since that last day we spent 
Beside the lake, since when he has forborne 
To make one in our midst. The cause was plain 
And simple, as we knew it, yet I guessed 
There was another reason unexpressed. 

Two mornings after that delightful day, 
He came with Gyp, and rod and gun, to say 
'Twas his intention an extended tramp 
To take among the mountains, with the friend 
Whose hospitality had lured him here. 



EXTE. 161 

He might be gone a week, or more, or less ; 

Hoped we would have some pleasant days and walks; 

That he might see us all on his return ; 

Charged me to recollect that all which came 

As " spoil " to yonder Wigwam on the mount. 

He was to see and share ; then said good-bye ; 

Glanced keenly at poor Constance' blushing face, 

And went regretfully. I did not doubt 

He went for game not only, but in search 

Of a solution to the problem deep. 

My poem had propounded to his mind. 

We missed him sadly ; so, well pleased to-night, 

We heard the sound of his familiar step, 

And eager 'rose to greet him. 

Constance tried 
Most bravely, her embarrassment, and joy 
At his return, from him, and all, to hide, 
But could not stay the lovely crimson tide 
That all her soft cheek painted. Mrs. Brown, 
Her sweet child leading, went within the house. 
And Sylvie, with delight, and outstretched hand. 
Sprang forward, saying frankly : "This is grand ! 
I'm just delighted you've at last returned ; 



162 RUE. 

We've missed you fearfully, and every day 
Have scolded that you made so long a stay." 

He laughed, and pressed her pretty, proffered hand, 
And for her kind remembrance thanked the girl ; 
Was glad he had been missed ; and glad to find 
We all were here to welcome his return ; 
Then with the slow flush mounting in his cheek, 
As twice before I'd seen it rise and flame. 
He turned to Constance, standing at my side 
With downcast eyes ; whose smiling, trembling lips 
Scarce to his kindly greeting could reply 
In uttered words — whose face a story told 
She would not have revealed for untold gold. 

And then came Mr. Mayne ; and then the boy 
Who daily homage to sweet Sylvie pays ; 
And each extended to our friend, returned, 
A glad and cordial welcome. Then the night 
Fell silently around us ; at the first 
In deep'ning violet shadows ; flooded then 
With soft, pale moonlight, falling in a shower 
Of silver radiance on each open flower. 
And tree, and shrub, and distant mountain-peak, 



RUE. ^68 

And hushed and slumb'ring valley. 

So the eve 
Waned swiftly, filled with pleasant chat, and gay 
With sweet, soft bursts of laughter. Now and then 
I wondered if our friend had pondered well 
The subject which had troubled all his thought 
When he had left us — if 'twas •^vell with both, 
As I so wished it might be. Now and then 
I fancied he had words upon his lips 
Which he refrained from uttering, perhaps 
Because they were not meant to fall upon 
The ears of all our number. Now and then 
I thought of that poor mother, with a pang 
Of sympathy, who, sufiE'ring from a loss 
Which tears her heart with anguish, still rebels, 
And thrusts aside the Pland which gave the blow, 
And now would fain give comfort, did she know 
'Twas Love that did afflict, and that would soothe. 
'Tis true I had not known a loss like hers. 
And so had earned the right to sympathize 
In her rebellious grief, but yet my heart 
Had been through deeps of sorrow, and had felt 
The bitter pain of loss, and chafed beneath 
My impotence to stay the mighty Hand 



164 BUE. 

Which took my dear ones from me. And I, too. 
Could understand the sore and envious pang. 
The sight of happy mothers with their babes 
Gave that poor desolated heart ; for I 
Had often grieved that I must be denied 
The joy of motherhood — that on my breast 
No little tender head of child might rest, 
And with soft lips give me that sweetest name 
Which to a woman's heart or ear e'er came. 

And so the evening passed. The hour grew late. 
And weary, I. And so I said good -night, 
And left them to their laughter and their chat. 
Again, as Mr. Denham took my hand. 
And pressed it with unusual warmth, I thought 
Some words unspoken trembled on his lips. 
If so, they were not uttered. So I came 
And left them, with the moonlight and the flowers 
To linger out the silver evening hours. 

And still I could not sleep, though sore fatigued. 
The murmur of their voices, low, indeed. 
But constant, floated upward to my ear. 
With now and then soft laughter, rippling clear 



BUE. 166 

Through waves of vibrant air ; the soft breeze sighed 
The quiv'ring branches of the larches through, 
Which near my casement lift their feath'ry boughs ; 
The moonlight filtered through them, falling pale 
Upon the floor in silv'ry arabesques 
Which changed their form with every sighing breath — 
All helped to banish the sweet guest I wooed. 
Then softly near me drew the troubled Past, 
And swept my heart-chords with relentless hand, 
Till each vibi^ated sharp and strong with pain ; 
And stern Regret stood by, and turned the leaves, 
Until the last sad score, by Mem'ry writ, 
Had been played through to the FinaWs close, 
And I was wild with sorrow, and the deep, 
Unconquer'ble, and aggravated grief. 
Wherein so many elements combined 
To banish peace from heart, and soul, and mind. 

Thoughts bitter and rebellious, sad, and full 
Of sharp regrets, and longings deep and sore. 
And sweet suggestions of what " might have been " 
Which wait with torture most refined, to spring 
Upon an hour unguarded, as was this. 
Surged with increasing power through my heart, 



166 EUE. 

Till with their strivings I was well nigh mad ; 
And tired with constant tossings to and fro, 
I spurned the couch where I had met wild-eyed 
And haggard-faced Unrest, in place of Sleep — 
Sweet, tender Sleep, with gentle, pitying face, 
And hand whose touch is soothing and so soft — 
And creeping to the window open wide, 
Sank in the chair that always stands beside. 

The soft, rich moonlight threw its lum'nous tide 
The casement through, and whispered low of peace ; 
The cool, sweet breeze caressed my fevered cheek 
As if in pity for my ruthless pain ; 
And faintly came the scent of countless flowers, 
Expressed by evening dews, which heavy lay 
Upon their fragrant faces, to my sense 
Conveying delicatest sympathy. 
As I recalled how sweeter they become, 
When, bruised and crushed, they suffer, and are dumb. 

And so at last I calmer grew ; the tide 
Of anguish, partly spent in force, now surged 
In duller throbbings through my wearied heart ; 
The still, pale Midnight touched me with her hush, 



RUE. 167 

And quieted in some degree ray pain ; 
And then I noticed what amid the strife 
Of passion raging in my breast, till now 
Had 'scaped my ear, that they I left below 
Had all dispersed, and silence in the porch 
Was regnant now ; and then I saw the two 
In yonder shimm'ring moonlight by the gate. 
And guessed this hour would make or mar the life 
Of that dear girl I'd learned to love so well. 
And so awhile forgot was pain and loss, 
In fancying the full, rich meed of joy 
This midnight hour might bring to her. 

And then 
They parted, and he went. She lingered still, 
Her head upon the gate-post lowly bent 
When in the distance died his steps away — 
And lingered to tell o'er the beads of joy 
In that bright rosary of love, this man 
Had, eager, thrust within her willing hand. 
Or so at least I fancied ; knowing well 
The deep devotion of a woman's heart. 
Which counts its joys as eagerly and oft 
As devotee her sacred, priest-blessed beads. 
Then up the path she slowly came, as though 



168 BT7E. 

She in a dream were walking — was it joy, 
So new, so deep, so sweet, retarding thus 
Her footsteps ? or — oh, could it be the first 
Sharp lashings of despair had struck the life 
And spring from out those supple, girlish limbs ? 
Thus questioned I, as, leaning out, I watched 
Her slow approach. But all so dim and faint 
The moonlight brooded 'round her, and sometimes 
Was swallowed by the shadows, I could not 
My queries answer perfectly. 

Ere long 
Her feet came up the stairway, slowly still, 
As though dragged upward by mere force of will ; 
And then the dour closed softly, and awhile 
Deep silence reigned around us ; then I heard 
A faint, low moan ; a half-convulsive sob ; 
Then silence ; while I held my breath to hear 
If there were any ground-work for the fear 
That filled my heart with sympathetic pain. 
And then the deep, half-stifled sob again ! 
Repeated — till a tempest of them came. 
And burst the last frail band of self-control. 
I knew the bitter story then — the whole. 



BUE. 169 

Her room is next to mine — the door ajar, 
I could not fall to hear, and hearing, grieve 
At agony I knew so well — so well ! 
At last I could no longer bear to sit 
In silence here, while such short space away. 
She fought supinely with the first wild throes 
Of a despair so new to her — which I 
Had known in every phase — and give no sign 
Of that deep sympathy within my heart. 
Ah, here at least I'd earned the solemn right 
To sympathize, by suff'ring o'er and o'er 
An anguish like to hers. And so I crept 
Across the room, and gently pushed the door, 
And, without entering, I spoke her name. 
She hushed her sobs, and listened. Then I said : 
*' Constance, come here ! Come, tell it all to me, 
And take the sympathy which I know how, 
By virtue of like suffering, to give. 
I know it all — yet tell me ! for I know 
In hearts untried ' The grief that doth not speak. 
Whispers the o'er-f raught heart and bids it break.' " 

She came. And with a wild, heart-breaking sob, 

She threw herself in my extended arms. 
8 



170 nuE. 

I held her for a moment to my breast, 
And pressed my lips in silence to her cheek, 
And spoke no word of sympathy. And then 
I drew her to the window, and sat down, 
Still holding her within my arms, and let 
Her sorrow spend itself, in some degree, 
In the hot falling tears. And then I said : 
" Now tell me ! I had hoped a happier fate 
For you, my love, than these wild tears presage ; 
That you at least might 'scape the bitt'rer part 
Of ' woman's lot,' that fails so oft to those 
Whose hearts, like yours, are strong to love.'* 

Awhile 
She did not answer ; then she said : " I know 
My pain is nothing to what jon have borne — 
And I have naught to tell. You know full well 
How foolish I have been ; how I have thought 
Because I — cared — for him, he must for me. 
And oh ! — I fear I've often let him see 
How much — I cared ; and yet — oh, I did try 
To bide it deep from his, and every eye." 

" I know, dear," answered I ; " but are you sure 
You were deceived ? and that he does not care 



RUE. 171 

As you had thought ? " 

" Ah yes ! Fm sure ! he's gone — " 
With caught and sobbing breath — " or goes, at least, 
When comes the early morn." 

" Gone ? " I exclaimed 
In deep surprise, "and has not said one word 
Of such intent, or bidden us good-bye. 
Though all the evening here ? " 

" I think he meant 
So to have done," she answered, " for he said 
Perhaps I'd guessed what all the eve was on 
His lips to say — what he had vainly tried 
To utter, in the face of such a kind 
And cordial welcome as we all had given. 
My heart stood still ; for then I guessed indeed 
What he would say — and what it meant to rae. 
These days had been so pleasant — so he said — 
Which he had passed with us, it was with dread 
He spoke the words which bring them to an end, 
For him at least. And then he said : 'My friend, 
I am 50 glad that I have met you here. 
Life has no rarer blessing than a friend ; 
And I am thankful I have found in you 
What life so rarely gives. Moi*e thankful, too. 



172 RUE. 

Than you perhaps will ever know, or guess.' 

His voice was very low, and very sweet, 

And every word seemed like a fond caress 

To my poor foolish heart ; but then I thought 

It faltered — for at least he ceased to speak. 

And as upon his face the moonlight fell, 

I fancied it grew white, as though in pain. 

If so he made no effort to conceal 

The fact from me ; for in the full, clear light 

He stood, and looked with sadness in my face. 

I know not what that told him, for my heart 

So troubled was, and beat so wild and hard 

With pain and with uncertainty, I gave 

No thought to what might on my face be 'graved. 

His pause was brief, and then he said again : 

* How passing fleet a summer's lovely hours, 

Though bright and sweet indeed ! and these wane 

fast ! 
Don't think I am presuming, if I say 
These weeks to me have glad ones been, each day 
A sep'rate pleasure, and a mem'ry sweet. 
Or if I ask you sometimes will recall 
In brighter hours to come, these perfect days, 
Aud nights so bright and fair, which we have spent 



RUE. 173 

Together here ; and with them think of him — 
The friend which they have brought you ?' 

" Did he need 
To asJc I would remember ? Did he think 
I ever could forget ? So spoke my thought, 
But I believe I held ray trait'rous lips 
From giving utterance to it. Indeed, 
They seemed so cold and stiff, I doubt they owned 
The pow'r to answer — for I said no word. 
Perhaps he thought me heedless, or unkind ; 
But still I think he could not have been blind 
To what was written' in the eyes which dwelt 
In anguish on his face. It may have been 
The shimm'ring and elusive glow, that streamed 
So coldly o'er his face, but, as I gazed. 
His eyes seemed beaming with a new, soft light \ 
His firm lips tremulous, and ashy white. 
Though wearing still the smile I know so well. 
For what seemed long, down in my face he looked 
In silence, then he spoke again. * You've guessed 
Ere this,' he said, ' that my good-night must mean 
Good-bye as well. I go to-mori*ow morn — • 
I've lingered here already far too long ' — 
His voice broke with a sigh, then he went on : 



174 RUE. 

' Tlfe hour is late — you'll bid me then farewell, 

And pray God-speed me? first, though, I would ask, 

If I your friendship do not press too hard. 

You'll give some portion of your kind regards 

To her — the bride, who, doubtless you have known 

Awaits my coming in her distant home. 

And who will love you well when you shall meet.* 

Oh, darling ! can you guess the horrid pain 

Which pierced my heart as thus I heard him speak, 

And knew at last what all his words had meant ? 

I scarcel}' could believe I heard aright. 

I looked up in his face, so deadly white. 

And read the truth. Ob, God ! I thought at first. 

My heart with that sore knowledge sure would burst. 

And for a while I know I upward gazed, 

Of aught scarce conscious but his bitter woi'ds. 

But Pride at last spoke loudly, and was heard ; 

I understood 'twas needful I should hide 

The agony that tore me, from his" sight, 

And so stepped backward in the deeper shade. 

My head was reeling, and ray brain confused ; 

How well I wore my mask I cannot tell ; 

I think I forced my lips to frame farewell — 

A brief congratulation ; and I know 



RUE. 175 

His face was brilliant with a certain glow, 
Though pallid still ; and that in trembling tones 
He made response : *I never shall forget 
Your kindness or your friendship ; and I pray 
That God may bless and keep you, wheresoe'er 
Your steps may wander. So good-night — farewell ! 
Aye, /are thee loell ! and if it be for aye, 
Still fare thee wqW— forever I ' " 

She broke oflf 
With one deep sob, and hid her face upon 
My shoulder for a moment, while I pressed 
My cheek to hers in silent sympathy. 
And then she slow resumed : " He took my hand, 
And drew me from the shadow in the light, 
Down-gazing in my face, while still his lips 
Their sweet smile wore, — and I had thought, perhaps, 
He did not care for my too open pain. 
Or that this moment was our last — oh God, 
Our very last — had they not been so white. 
And then he softly said once more, good night, 
Released my hand, smiled in my face, and went — 
And went forever ! Oh, can it be true ? 
Or else — why do I care ! but oh — I do /" * 



176 RUE. 

I held her close in silence, for a time, 
While she sobbed out her grief and her regrets, 
The while my heart ached for her, for I knew 
That this was but the prelude to long days 
And weary nights of longing, and of sore, 
Unconquered, e'er-recurring misery. 
I knew she had not lightly loved, and long 
Would be the struggle ere the conquest came. 
A conquest which, if gained, would leave her heart 
Deep scarred and weary, with the bloom of joy 
Forever brushed therefrom — the deep result 
Of these few weeks of happy intercourse. 
So innocent in seeming, and so sweet. 
At last she said : " Oh, darling, you can't guess 
How much you comfort me ! how perfect is 
The sympathy you give me in my pain. 
I know it is because you've felt the same, 
And greater even, so have learned to know 
How in perfection sympathy to show." 

" Oh, yes, I know !" I said. " I've trodden all 
The path your tender feet have walked to-night, 
And so I know how wild and rough it is. 
But if 'twill comfort you — and well I know 



RUE. 177 

It will — I think you may believe that you 

Were not the only suff'rer in that hour 

So dark and" terrible, that he as well 

Felt all the pangs of such a hopeless love. 

I think he cares — but that he did not dream 

Where he was drifting, till that last bright day 

We spent beside the lake — till words of mine 

Awoke him to the danger he was in. 

And then you know he went away ; I thought — 

And now am sure — to ponder well the facts, 

And so decide upon his future course. 

I thought he loved you, so I did not doubt 

'Twould all be well for both. I had not dreamed 

He was already bound. But, dear, at least 

To honor him is left, and that is much ; 

Aye, much! To love where one cannot respect, 

Must be most bitter, truly. And I think 

With you, as with myself, it would indeed 

Be difficult for love to long survive 

Respect and honor ; love cannot abide 

In harmony with scorn or with contempt. 

And, dear, though hard and bitter 'twas to part 

As you to-night have parted, to delay 

Had made it harder still ; so it was best 
8* 



178 RUE. 

He go at once, and, going, leave unsaid, 

Bound as he is, the words you would have heard, 

I have no doubt, had he, like you, been fi'ee. 

And so he keeps his honor — so keeps yours. 

And your respect — and love. For love comes not 

And goes, with equal ease. Alas, alas 

For us, it should be so !" 

Then came again 
Brief silence. Then said Constance : " But, dear 

friend, 
Tou should not sit here all the night, deprived 
Of rest and sleep. I'm selfish, dear, indeed, 
So to have kept you." 

" No, I could not sleep. 
Or I had nothing known of what the night 
Had brought you," I rejjlied. " But I am glad 
So to have lov«it my rest, if you have found 
In my deep sympathy a balm, though slight, 
For what you suffer." 

"Ah, not slight is it. 
But greater than you know. I had not thought 
That any so could enter in, so feel 
Another's woe, as you have shown to-night 
'Tis possible to do." 



EJJE. 179 

" Dear child, I too 
Through these dark hours down in the depths have 

been, 
And almost vanquished been by human pain — 
Not new, like yours, but suffered once again 
As oft before — which is unconquered still, 
Though, for the moment spent, it quiet lies, 
And waits the next unguarded hour, to rise, 
The contest to renew. Mayhap for me 
It has been good to merge in sympathy 
The selfish grief by which I was o'er-borne 
Ere grew the hour so late." 

" Oh, dear, dear friend I " 
The girl exclaimed, as to her knees she slipped. 
And clasped her soft arms 'round my waist, as once 
Before, when she a like request had made. 
" Why will you not confide to me the pain 
Which you so long have suffered, that in turn 
I may the sympathy of love give you? 
Believe me, dear, I would through life be true." 

"Oh, Constance, do I doubt it ? No, oh no ! 
And through the cup you've drank this night, you may 
Perchance enabled be to understand 



180 RUE. 

The story I will tell you. It is this : 

Long years agone, when in my bounding heart 

Youth's lambent fires burned warm, a tender hand 

Was laid upon my throbbing pulses, which 

To rapture leaped beneath the magic touch. 

The days were then all gold and rose ; the nights 

Mistily beautiful with dreams of joy. 

The past was nothing — a forgotten boon ; 

The future, blank ; the present, all of life ; — 

How sweet, the warmest words would fail to show, 

As, led by that dear hand, I wandered on, 

On, and still on, through flow'i'y vales of bliss, 

More beautiful than I had deemed a scene 

Of earth could ever be. Nor had I thought 

A human heart could know such rare delight ; 

A sweetness so intense, and sti'ong, and deep ; 

A joy so satisfying, and complete. 

As that which swelled to music's rythmic beat 

Within my heart, each string vibrating strong 

With rapture exquisite, at every clasp 

Of that firm hand which held mine in its grasp. 

" But ah, the joy was fleeting as a dream I 
The sweetness passing brief ! A hand of iron 



BUE. 181 

Was thrust between us two, and we were bid 

To stand apart through all the years of life. 

Vain were it to resist. Immutable 

As Heav'n's decrees the law that severed us ; 

Inflexible as Fate's the cruel hand 

That held us far apart. And then we knew 

The flow'ry banks whereon so happily 

We wandered, hand in hand, spread fair above 

A deep defile, bristling with many a rock. 

Jagged and sharply cut, o'er which we scarce 

Had 'scaped a fatal plunge. The iron hand 

From this had saved us, true ! but ah, too late 

Twas interposed our stricken hearts to spare 

Deep, agonizing pain, and sharp despair. 

"Regret, and struggle, grief, and longing sore 
The pleasant walk had brought us. To a dirge 
Had turned the song of triumph in my heart, 
As once again that master-hand the chords — 
All trembling now, and vibrant with regret — • 
Pressed with magnetic fingers, ling'ring long 
O'er t\iQ finale of our hymn to love, 
Whose sadness wrung hot, bitter tears from eyes 



183 RUE, 

Which late had darrced with smiles. Brief was the 

joy ; 

The rapture and the sweetness brief ! Bat long 
The pain and strife that followed ! For my heart 
Was warm, and strong ; I could not love, as some, 
With brief and fleeting passion — then forget. 
Too deeply had affecti-on's seal been set. 

" Apart we sitood, and on each other gazed ; 
And longed to clasp each one the other's hand ; 
Longed for one fond caress ; longed for one hour 
Of sweet companionship, when we should be 
Each to the other all ; and, longing, were 
Denied the simplest boons of happy love, 
Given with such lavish hands to other hearts. 
So looked, and longed, and so were still denied. 
The iron hand held us back, and impotent 
And vain were all our strivings for release 
From that stern grasp which had destroyed our peace. 

" And then rebellion woke within the heart 
Late tuned to softest music, and with tone 
Of bitterness, and pain, it questioned Life 
Why this thing should be so : why thus to me 



RUE. 183 

Should b«t be giv'n the bitter drops of love, 
While on my peers a whole rich, luscious draught 
Of sweetness was bestowed, that they might quaff 
At will. — God's goodness questioned, and His love. 
His justice seemed partiality, misnamed. 
I recognized His right to mould at will 
The clay His band had fashioned — but the love 
That gave to one, all jo}', another, woe, 
I could not understand. 

" For ten long years 
The struggle lasted. Oh, the deep unrest ; 
The longings for oblivion ; for escape 
From self, and the wild pain that made my life 
A torture ! oh, the sighs wrung from ray heart's 
Profoundest deeps ; the bitter, burning tears 
That damped my pillow many a weary night 
Of that long decade which began so fair ! 
Then to my troubled heart a still small voice 
Spoke peace ; so softly, stilly, it was long 
Ere I was conscious of its whisper sweet ; 
Long ere the surging waves of deep unrest 
Were hushed to quietude and trustful calm ; 
Long ere the problem that so vexed my soul 
Was solved, and I could understand at last 



184 BUE. 

The minietry of pain ; the tender love 

That sometimes doth withhold ; that chastens sore 

The fav'rite child, whose faulty character 

'Twould mould to perfectness and symmetiy, 

Developing, through prunings sharp, severe, 

The latent strength and force, the lurking grace 

Of the erst-while encumbered character ; 

Could understand that life, which seems so vain — 

In all its many threads so tangled — full 

Of problems hard to state, or solve, or prove— 

Is but a school-time for the human soul. 

In which to fit for God's full life of love, 

In God's Eternal City, our blest home ; 

The tasks He sets us, only such as He, 

The Teacher, in His wisdom, and His love. 

Doth see shall best prepare us for that life, 

And for the work He hath for us to do, 

While we're life's higher classes passing through. 

" And so I ceased to long for bliss withheld J 
Was satisfied to do the tasks He set ; 
To wait, if such His will, till from His hand 
I should receive the joy and happiness 
By many gathered here. Could look upon 



RUE, 186 

' Love's deep red roses ' blooming sweet and fair 

By many a ' garden wall,' and pass them by 

With careless smiles, not envying at all 

The beauty that my life had missed. I said : 

God's love is best, and His dear love is mine. 

If while some grasp, I ever must ' resign,' 

And I drink ' rue,' while others quaff life's ' wine,* 

He makes ' the balance good.' His love is best. 

And so He gave me peace, and trust, and rest, 

And I was happy, although still unblest 

By human life's best human love. Contenty 

That peerless, white-winged dove, had fluttered down 

And nestled in my heart. My pulses throbbed 

With cool and even beat. No thrill of joy 

Or woe, disturbed the quiet of my breast, 

My spirit's deep, calm peace. How sweet to me 

This perfect rest, one only who has sailed 

Over such troubled waters as my course 

Had been, and found at last a haven smooth 

As mine, could understand. — So sweet it was, 

E'en for the bliss for years desired in vain. 

To have it broken I had shrunk with pain. 

" Ad interim, I found my work, which was 



186 RUE. 

To me a priceless boon. It filled my thonght, 

Insjjired my mind, and, in some sense at least 

It satisfied my heart. There was a strong, 

Exhilarating pleasure in the power 

Of thus creating, at my will, the souls 

Which grew beneath my pen ; in wand'ring through 

The realms of fancy, and of imageiy, 

In search of thoughts, and feelings, and desires. 

And sensibilities with which t' endow 

The people of my sweet, imagined world. 

I worked for love of work — this work, which was 

To me in every way congenial ; and 

I won success ; — if not so great as I 

Sometimes had dreamed of, still, as great, perhaps. 

As I had reason to expect. I'd been 

An eager reader ever ; now I read 

As constantly, but with a purpose. So 

I dwelt now in the intellectual, 

While the emotional — in me so strong — 

Slept quietly, and seldom woke for long. 

" So nearly half a decade more flew by ; 
And still the sweet white dove. Content^ abode 
Within my quiet heart. I still passed by 



RUE. 181 

My neighbor's gardens, bright with roses red, 
Without one envious thought ; till, on a day 
Of sunny brilliance, one whose hands were filled 
With dewy blossoms, pausing by ray side 
Until the fragrance of her scarlet flowers 
Was wafted to my senses, with a pang 
Of longing like to that of years gone by, 
I prayed — ' O, God, bless me with human love — 
Yet not my will, but Thine be done ! ' I pi-ayed. 
And straightway did the prayer forget. The pang 
Of longing and regret had passed. Content 
Still tarried in ray heart." 

I paused, and leaned 
My cheek upon ray hand, and for a space 
"Let silence drop between us. Constance' face 
Was laid upon my knee — her eyes, upturned, 
And resting eagerly upon my own, 
Were dim vnih unshed tears ; her arms still clasped 
My waist, with pressure fond ; and well I saw 
She had forgotten, in her int'rest deep 
In what I had related, all the pain 
Which so had torn her in the earlier night. 
She had not spoken once ; but oft her lips 
Turned to my hand she'd drawn beneath her cheek, 



188 RUB. 

In sympathy most delicate and sweet. 

Bat now she said : " Dear, it was true, indeed, 

As you were saying but a week agone, 

That you have been upon the mountain top, 

And from its outlook seen the heavenly hills. 

I do not wonder that you felt, dear, then, 

That it was good to suffer, such deep things 

So perfectly and sweetly to have learned. 

God must have loved you well, so to have taught 

Your heart from out His own grand, perfect thought." 

I started. " Is He teaching you ? " I asked. 
"You've stepped beyond me in the thought you 

gave 
Just now — which never hitherto has come 
And spoken to my soul. There's much in it 
Which I would ponder later. 'Tis a thought 
I thank you, dear, for bringing, and our God 
For having sent it by your lips." 

1 bent 
And kissed her softly ere she made reply : 
" I'm glad if any word that I could say, 
Or from my heart, or sent from God by me, 
Can compensate, e'en in the least degree. 



HUE. 189 

For all the wealth of sympathy and love 
Which you have shown to me. But this content — 
So sweet, so dearly bought, so prized by you — 
Ah, could you lose it, darling ? " 

" Yes, ah yes ! " 
I answered. " Nearly half a decade long, 
As I have said, within my quiet heart 
It tarried sweetly, filling it with peace — 
Such peace as it had never known before, 
Nor may, I fear, again. 

" And then there came 
One whose poetic spirit, touched with fire, 
Was finely strung to harmonize with mine. 
In pleasant converse many an hour was passed ; 
With friendly grasp his warm, firm hand met 

mine ; 
And sympathy of aim, and taste, and hope. 
Sealed us congenial friends. 

" And still my heart 
Beat quiet in my bosom ! still no thrill 
Of pain or rapture stirred my tranquil pulse. 
The which I fancied now had grown so calm. 
No hand — save one — could stir it to new life. 
Or waken in my heart the old sweet strife. 



190 BUE. 

" And so we joj'ed in friendly intercourse 
At which none cavilled. Talked of books, and art j 
Of life — its triumphs, failures, duties, joys ; 
The Christian's hope and work ; aesthetics too, 
And metaphysics oft ; the day's affaii's, 
And all the topics open to such friends. 
And still my heart lay quiet in my breast. 
The calm was long, and deep, and restful, as 
Should be a calm from such a tempest born — 
But proved the precedent of coming storm. 

" There came an hour when on my passive hand 
His palm was laid, with new, magnetic touch. 
Surprised, I felt my dormant pulse beat fast, 
In quick response to that impassioned clasp. 
Surprised, I saw in eyes down -drooped to mine, 
A warmer light than friendship ever lends. 
I marvelled, scarcely trusting what I read ; 
And studied long his face to see how true 
"Was my surmise ; and tried my power well 
Ere satisfied — ere I betrayed to him 
How that one touch had stirred my quiet pulse. 
But as the days flew on, and few passed by 
But brought him for some moments to my side, 



RUE. 191 

We came to understand each other well. 

Indeed, it was not long ere we had learned 

The sympathy between us was so fine, 

It needed naught more fond than clasping hand 

To demonstrate our hearts in beat kept time. 

And so completely en rapport our souls, 

Thought scarcely needed forms of speech, or words, 

To make itself unto the other known. 

And this was pleasanter tlian I can say. 

For rarely, in this world of diverse powers, 

Do we find spirits so attuned to ours. 

"Although between us was such unreserve, 
Such harmony, by either recognized. 
We only dreamed of friendship. Friendship, true. 
Idealized, and rarely found ; but still 
A friendship that was possible. Meanwhile, 
I studied him with pleasure that increased 
With knowledge of his character and mind. 
I found him cheerful ever ; witty ; kind. 
And tender-hearted to a fault ; refined ; 
And generous ; and delicate. A true 
And manly gentleman. Not faultless, he. 
Or else not human. But I saw o'er them 



193 ^UE. 

His virtues were predominant, and so 

I gave his imperfections little thought. 

Our circle was the same ; my friends were his ; 

Our tastes were similar ; so we ne'er lacked 

For subjects or of thought or pleasant speech. 

He told me of his past — its trials, toils, 

Its pleasures, triumphs, friends. Read with me oft, 

And to me still more frequently, some brief 

And pleasant poem which we each admired. 

I worked, and he examined, ci'iticised. 

And oft approved and praised ; and now and then 

He brought to me some trifle from his pen, . 

And I in turn the critic then became. 

So each the other stimulated ; each 

The other gave encouragement and aid ; 

And all was harmony between us two. 

No thought, no word, jarred on the pleasant hours 

Which drew us close with all a magnet's powers. 

" One day stands out from all the rest — complete ! 
Marked by no great emotion, or event, 
But only by a gladness, and content, 
And rare, aesthetic pleasure, innocent 
And sweet, as though no bar between us lay. 



RUE. 193 

Almost a whole, long, peerless, perfect day ; 

Wherein we learned, as ne'er we had before, 

How strong and deep the subtle sympathy 

Between our souls ; the harmony that marked 

Our thoughts ; the strong, magnetic pow'r that bound 

Our hearts together till they throbbed as one ; 

How to our nature's finest fiber, we 

Each other suited, as few ever could. 

I think, while mem'ry lives in either heart, 

That day will from her records ne'er depart. 

" One day ! and oh, how many, many, know 

A lifetime filled with such ! 

"I had not thought 

Until he came, the whole world held a man 

Who thus could play, at will, upon the chords 

Of heart, and soul, and sense ; who thus could stir, 

E'en to its lowest depths, a soul so long 

Held in the quietude which mine had known. 

Until he came and touched it. It is said 

* Hearts have their winter, and re-bloom in spring ! ' 

So mine awoke from its long wintry sleep, 

And leaped with pleasure to admit the guest 

Who knocked so softly at its guardless door. 
9 



194 RUE. 

Awhile — then Conscience wakened too, and spolce 
A warning to the llutt'ring, sentient thing ; 
For he was bound ; and love to us was sin." 

" 0?i ! well you said you'd trodden all the path 
Which I have walked to-night ! " cried Constance 

then, 
With quick, sharp accent of acntest pain. 
"Ah, what know I of sorrow, or intense 
And overwhelming grief ? " 

" My love, I pray 
You ne'er know more than that you know to-day. 
Pain had not wakened yet, but did full soon ; 
Nor in it was the faintest gleam of hope — 
For his were bonds that naught but death could break. 
I had been skeptical of second love — 
I had not thought that any who had known 
A passion such as mine for him long lost, 
Could ever love again ; could ever feel 
That rich delirium of joy slow steal. 
Deep thrilling, through the pulses, till the heart 
Beat with responsive wildness ; could renew 
Emotions that are known e'e« once to few. 
And, least of all, bad I believed that I 



RUE. 195 

Could ever pi-ove its possibility 

By personal experience ; or that 

My heart held in reserve the power so 

To care for any I should ever meet. 

But I was doomed to prove the fallacy 

Of all such unbeliefs. Nor was it long, 

Strive as I might with all the sophistry 

Which Satan lends to blind the human soul, 

I could conceal the knowledge from my heart, 

That I to him was passing dear — that he 

Than any other was far more to me. 

" With knowledge, pain began ; and with the pain, 
Began the strife I knew so well — so well ! 
Regrets, and questionings, and tears, and sighs, 
Once conquered, now a giant foe and strong. 
While sweet Content, so loved, so hardly won, 
Soon spread her snowy wings and flew away; 
And dark Unrest filled up the vacant place 
Wherein she brooded late. Deep, sore Unrest, 
So hard to bear, howe'er familiar grown. 
How gladly now I'd have retraced my steps 
Along the way my feet so lately paced ! 
How gladly I'd have bushed my throbbing heart 



196 RUE. 

To its late peace and rest ! It might not be ! 
Through its unguarded portals he had crept, 
Nor would he be displaced. Too few its guests, 
Too welcome and too honored he, to be 
Thrust rudely out, although I owned the power. 
But this I did not. He had won his throne. 
Where henceforth he must reign, and he alone. 

" When souls have touched, and hearts have beat in 
time, 
No pow'r of will can quench the sacred flame. 
Or make the future as the past the same. 

" So large the place the dove Content had filled, 
It now gave room, not for Unrest alone, 
But strong Regret, rebellious Questioning, 
And envious Pain had all crept in as well. 
Twice to have loved, I said, and twice in vain ! 
Twice to have felt a heart which to but few 
Can e'er respond, stirred to its very deeps ! 
Twice to have looked at what would satisfy 
Its every wish, and see it snatched away, 
Leaving a longing and a want behind ! 
To look one moment into Paradise, 



RUE. 197 

And have the gates shut in my very face ! 

Must it be ever thus, my whole life long ? 

Could there be naught for me but to resign ? 

Must I still drink life's rue, and must its wine 

Be ever dashed, scarce tasted, from my lips, 

And this by my own hand ? Oh, had I not 

Suffered enough in those dark days of old. 

And from the self -same cause, but I must tread 

The wine-press once again ? What more — what 

more 
Of discipline like this did my sore heart — 
Ere-while submissive, trustful, and content — 
Have need of, that like this I must again 
Tlie suff'rings and the pangs of old endure? 
Was this Gocfs answer to my prayer for love? 
And if 'twas so, how could it be a sin ! 
Or — was He trying me, to see if yet 
I worthy had become of some great boon 
Of love and happiness He held in store ? 
I could not tell ! He only knew — or could. 
But if the last, I felt, with bitter shame, 
I had not stood the test. Aye, I had proved 
Unworthy yet, when in the balance weighed 
With sore temptation ; I was proven weak — 



108 BUE. 

Weak still, for all the meed of strength I thought 
The years to my oft chastened heart had brought." 

" Weak because loving ? Ah, how weak are all 
Of womankind, if that be weakness, dear ! " 
Said Constance then. 

" Not weak in loving — nay ! 
But weak in that I did not thrust away 
The tempter earlier from my heart. To love 
Was but the almost sure result of such 
Association, frequent, close, and sweet. 
As we for weeks had known. We should have seen 
That in the end it nothing less could mean. 

"7" saw at last, but I was weak indeed, 
And could not speak the words that should debar 
My heart and life of what it ne'er before 
Had in such measure known — a deep, and full 
Companionship — and not alone of heart, 
But mind and soul as well. I've heard it said : 
* Not e'en the tend'rest heart, and next our own, 
Knows half the reasons why we smile or sigh.* 
I know 'tis true ; and yet, he often caught 
Ere I could speak it, my un uttered thought ; 



RUE. 199 

And with my hand in his, I often felt 
Our hearts were in communication, too. 
And that direct. This was not sentiment. 
But was z. feeling, strong as that which made 
Us conscious of the clasp of sentient palma. 
I know not of psychology enough, 
Or of aesthetics, to account for this 
By any ' ism ' of the present day. 
I only know it was a feeling real, 
I ne'er before had known, or shall again. 
For never more will one so near ray heart, 
My inmost soul approach. 

" So, as I said, 
I could not speak the words that bade him come 
No more, that shut him wholly from my life. 
I oft resolved to do so, ere he came. 
But then it was so sweet to have him near ; 
To feel the love that never passed his lips ; 
To have his sympathj'- in all ray work — 
In all that jJleased rae — that the flesh proved weak 
Though willing was the spirit. So still raged 
The corabat in my soul, both fierce and long, 
Tempting and trying me almost beyond 
My power to endure." 



200 BUE, 

" And he looked on, 
And saw unmoved, inactive, all this strife ?" 
Inquired the girl. 

" No, not unmoved, I think. 
Although he must have seen it — in degree. 
And only thus ; for those few hours he spent 
Beside me, were the brightest of my days. 
Thus little of the conflict did he see. 
Though strong and fierce it swelled. But through it 

all 
I prayed — ' Oh, Christ, once tempted, leave me 

not 
In this my hour of darkness ! Be thou near 
To me — to him — and keep us both from sin !' 
For still I said — and felt — God's love is best ! 
For that brings peace instead of wild unrest ; 
And that gives promise of a joy to come, 
"When we shall all be gathered in His home. 

" God's love is best ! but while the human heart 
Beats with a human pulse, it must cry out. 
At times, for human love to satisfy 
The human craving, and the human need. 
So, though I clung to God's sustaining hand 



BUE. 201 

All through that time of struggle and of pain, 
My human heart cried hungrily for love — 
His love, that waited just beneath my hand, 
Full, perfect, satisfying each demand. 

" So came temptation in seductive guise ! 

And came with greater force, I knew full well, 

To me, than him ; for I was more alone. 

And needed more the love that he could give. 

His life was full already — mine was bare 

And empty of the grace that to the heart 

Of woman is so sweet ; which none beside, 

How good soe'er, can perfectly supply. 

But not in this alone temptation lay : 

To be in all ray many changing moods 

So fully understood ; to know myself 

Appreciated, and by one so kind ; 

To feel that he could sympathize in all 

The thoughts, pursuits, and pleasures of ray days ; 

To see, where'er we met, his first glad smile. 

His warmest greeting was for me — his last 

Farewell of look, or word, or gesture, mine, 

Was very pleasant to my lonely heart. 

And so awhile I hugged the sweetness close — 
9* 



203 BUE. 

Mixed though it was with pain in every part — 
Nor thrust away the tempter from my heart. 

" But not for long. For Conscience, as I said, 
Awoke from slumber brief, and warning words 
Soft whispered to my swiftly throbbing heart. 
Conscience, and one who brought from heav'u direct, 
It seemed to us, a message to our souls. 
We sat one night within the house of God — 
Apart, yet ever conscious, in our hearts, 
I of his presence, doubtless he of mine — 
And lent a list'ning ear to one who swayed 
At will, the souls of those who heard him speak. 
I could not tell you of his theme one word, 
Until, with somewhat of irrelevance, 
He, leaning forward, said with earnestness : 
' There may be those before me at this hour, 
Still serving God, though in temptation's toils ; 
Temptations made more powerful and strong 
By inclination, sympathy, and taste, 
Or force of olden habit, which revives 
At times, and proves itself unconquered still. 
If such there be, 'twere well they understand 
Temptation is a flow'r, which ou the edge 



RUE. 203 

Of frightful gorges, deep and steep, doth bloom. 

They may, perchance, the flower stoop and pluck, 

And still regain their footing, firm and strong. 

'Tis but one chance in many ; for too oft 

They lose their balance, and are hurled down, down. 

Through frightful space — to darkest depths of hell.' 

The last word, uttered in a whisper deep, 

Fell on a breathless silence. And although 

I recollect I thought it, even then, 

Unto his subject quite irrelevant. 

And fancied it a sentiment he thought 

So fine and sweet ho wislied to give it air, 

And so he introduced it thus and there. 

It notwithstanding had fulfilled its part. 

And sunk, with aim unerring, in my heart. 

" The service ended. Mingling v^'ith the throng, 
I slowly paced adown the aisle, and stood 
For one brief moment, hand to hand with him ; 
While we, who in these days had learned to read 
So well the other's face, saw graved on each 
A trouble vague and grave, and knew the shaft 
At random sent, had pierced the heart of both. 
He told me later, that the night to him 



204 RUE. 

"Was one of deep unrest ; that sleep forsook 
His pillow, nor would be recalled until 
The dawn broke softly o'er the eastern hills. 

" The day that followed brought him to my side 
As had become his wont ; but there had grown 
Between us a restraint before unknown, 
Which either felt, whose cause by each was guessed. 
But not for long could such a feeling rest 
Between us two, while each could read so well 
The other's heart, and feel each thought-wave swell, 
Until it broke upon the shore of speech. 
I cannot tell or through my lips or his 
The thought first broke. I only know we looked 
Within each other's eyes, and knew, at last. 
Our boasted friendship had become a thing 
Belonging to the past ; that love had come, 
Soft floating on the waves of sympathy, 
And lay high stranded on our throbbing hearts. 
The tide that bore it hither still might surge. 
And beat, and rush, and break in foamy surf, 
And flow or ebb at will ; it could not lift 
The stranded love, and bear it to the sea. 
And leave us as before, serene, and free. 



RUE. 205 

" The love had come unwooed ; with sails all set ; 
The wave had lifted it, and tossed it high, 
Beyond the utmost reach of coming tides ; 
What should we do with it — this love ! we two — 
One bound with thongs no struggles e'er could break. 
The other pow'rless too this love to take 
And thrust it backward on the tide's strong arms. 
It lay there, cradled softly on our hearts ; 
'Twas perfect and complete in every part ; 
'Twas fanned by breezes sweet ; 'twas passing fair ; 
Unwished, unsought it came — oh, why not we 
Together launch it and set sail therein — 
To unknown seas ? nay ! nay ! along the shore — 
Scarce out of sight — a little way — no more — 
Could there be harm while we were still in view 
Of all who chose to look ? what though we grasp 
A few sweet hours, and rock together thus 
In love's frail boat upon a summer tide ! 
Ah, where in this could danger lurk or l)ide ? 

" So to each other spoke our thought — not giv'n 
To words, but uttered only through the strong 
And subtle pow'r which lay in sympathy 
So fine, our hearts became to each their own 



206 RUE. 

Complete interpreter ; which, speaking through 
The ejQ^ that met with no reserve of glance 
And through the clasped and thrilling palms, by each, 
Was heard responsive. 

"But no word that trenched 
On this, from lips of his or mine brake forth— 
Save oc'ce, when for his splendid self-control 
Became the moment's power far too great, 
And from his lips the quick confession broke. 
That I was dearly loved. — This later. Now 
We sjjoke with frankness, as had been our wont, 
Of what we each had listened y ester-eve, 
And what the force with which it came to us. 
Our eyes were fairly opened, and we saw 
We were on dang'rous ground. We did not fear 
To lose our foothold on the solid rock, 
And be precipitated to unknown 
And fatal depths of sin — we knew ourselves. 
And knew each other far too well — our trust 
In God was too abiding, and too deep, 
To fear the fate tlie preacher had foretold. 
We both were Chri.^tians ; we could not commit 
So great a wrong, and sin against our God. 
So not in that to us the danger lay : 



RUE. 207 

But dally'ng with temptation, as of late, 

We might brush from our Christian purity, 

The rich, soft delicacy of its bloom ; 

And there was danger also that we two 

Should come to love each other far too well, 

And so destroy the peace of mind of both. 

Of tills we spoke with frankness, as I said ; 

But either knew the danger had been dared, 

And that the work was done. Se thought, perhaps, 

'Twas not too late these last days to redeem. 

And make this love a moment's blissful dream, 

Which soon, now we had wakened, would by each 

Forgotten be, and all be as of old. 

It might — to him — it never could to me ! 

And this I Joieio, as by his side I sat, 

And calmly said : ' Yes, it is right, and best. 

We meet no more as lately we have done. 

On terras that draw us closer, heart to heart. 

With every passing day. Perhaps too long 

Already, we have dallied with the charm 

Each for the other has, born of the deep 

And perfect harmony between our souls. 

Perhaps too close, by sympathy impelled. 

Our hearts haye come — so close indeed they speak 



208 BUE. 

Each to tlie other without use of words. 
And so we'll meet no more, save, as of old, 
When chance together brings us. I shall miss 
Your daily visits, and the interchange 
Of thought and speech upon the interests 
Which fill my days ; but can submit, though loth, 
To what I know is right and best for both.' 

" This I could say with calmness, as I sat, 
My hand in his, his eyes upon my face ; 
But well I knew the pain with which the days 
To come would be endowed — to me, at least, 
However it might be with him. Indeed, 
I knew for him 'twould be less hard than me, 
To put in force these words, and to give up 
Each other wholly, as we felt we must. 
And yet, I think he found it hard, as well, 
Me to resign, who had of late, I knew, 
To him grown passing precious. But he held 
Deep in his nature great reserve of strength, 
When cause for its exertion was revealed. 
Or action had become imperative. 
Ease-loving, fond of drifting with the tide, 
As well I knew he was ; and shrinking, too. 



RUE. 209 

From what would be unpleasant, or to him 

Or others whom he loved, as I had found 

So many times he did ; yet when there came 

A strong necessity for action, he 

Proved equal to the need, and, standing firm, 

Revealed the latent strength few would have guessed 

His pleasant nature held. 

" So was it now : 
Eyes dim with unshed tears, as oft before 
I'd seen them under stress of feeling strong ; 
Lips tremulous with pain he could not hide ; 
Hands holding mine in pressure hard and warm. 
All told how stern the ordeal was to him. 
Which bade him yield the glad companionship 
With one congenial as but few could be. 
And yet, he to the right could still stand firm. 
For this I honored him ; for this I loved 
More fondly still the man who thus had proved 
He worthy was of such deep love as mine. 
And so we parted ! often still to meet, 
But rarely now as we of late had done ; 
And when we did, the pain exceeded far 
The meed of pleasure which tlic hour could yield. 
I saw him from my window daily still ; 



210 EUE, 

His greeting ever was a smile most fond ; 
But what was this but torture to the heart 
Lone, sad, aud sorrowful — from him apart ! " 

Again I paused. Back pressed those hitter days 
Upon my heart, with all the force of pain 
Which through them had been trailed from end to end. 
And, cov'ring with ray hand my burning eyes. 
Leaned back, forgetful for the time of all 
But that deep misery I then had known. 
And which still stretches through the present time. 
On reaching to the future. Deep and hard 
Ifc throbbed along my tortured pulses now, 
As I recalled the agony that filled 
Each moment of those long, slow-dragging days, 
And restless, sleepless'hours of troubled nights, 
Not blacker than the fate that wraps me 'round. 
And seems all coming time to darkly bound. 

I had, I say, forgotten all but this ; 
And started when a soft, and liug'ring kiss 
Fell on my mouth from lips divinely sv/eet ; 
"While round my neck a tender arm v/as clasped ; 
And on my ear a sobbing sigh breathed soft. 



BUE. 211 

In sympatliy I had not known so oft 
As to have rendered valueless its gift, 
Or tiresome its expression. 

" Darling, oh 
Why do I let you tell me this, that so 
Bi'ings back to you the fearful suffering 
Of that sad time ! Dear, tell me now no more. 
So sorrowful it makes your heart, and sore." 

Thus Constance murmured through her trembling 
lips ; 
But I returned — with one long, heavy sigh. 
From the i-ecurring anguish of those days 
Breaking away — " Yes, it has brought it all 
With freshness to me, as so oft before ; 
But used to that long since I have become, 
For seldom in my heart is mem'ry dumb. 
And I have now but little more to tell. 
Upon the mis'ry of that bitter time 
I will not dwell ; for I in words could ne'er 
Convey to you a realizing sense 
Of how intensely deep and drear it was. 
For, as you may suppose, a parting such 
As ours had been, and separation, too, 



212 RUE. 

So closely foll'wing on the pleasant hours 

We late had known, had but increased the love 

Each for the other felt — increased the sti'ife 

Of pain and passion for the mastery 

O'er conscience, and my faith and trust in God, 

Contending in my breast. 

" I could not tell 
One half the elements that entered in 
To that sore struggle. Shame, that when exposed 
To fierce temptation's flames, I through them had 
Not passed without the smell of fire upon 
My garments left ; regret I had let slip, 
For those few days of sweet companionship. 
The hard-won peace, content, and trust, from years 
Of pain and sorrow wrested ; and a sense 
Of having lost th' approving smile of God — 
Of having dropped my hold upon the Hand 
Whose guidance and suppoi't I long had known, 
And had been glad in all my ways to own. 

" This first, and last ; and running thick through 
this — 
As runs an undertone of sadness through 
Some splendid harmony of chorded sounds — 



RUE. 213 

A moan of madness, or a wail of pain 

Through proudest pteans swelling, low, yet strong — 

Rebellion ; and impatience ; and despair ; 

And longing deep and constant ; anger, too ; 

And never-ceasing, ever-throbbing pain. 

Rebellion that again I must wade through 

A stream whose waters are so dark and deep ; 

That I must pace again, with bleeding feet, 

A path I had already trodden bare ; 

That when I was at peace, and was content, 

And resting, trustful, in the love of God, 

Should come temptations so insidious, strong, 

In guise so sweet, and so beguiling too, 

My weak heart could not bear them, or o'ercome ; 

That others should be giv'n such wealth of love, 

And all I had from me be taken — all! 

Bare, poor, and empty leaving all my life. 

Impatience of the pain long years agone 

Familiar grown — which then I bore so well. 

And now so rasped me with its fretting swell, 

I could no patience with it feel, nor try 

To hush its wailings O" the breast of God, 

Who once had soothed me sweetly, when beneath 

The chast'ning rod I had grown faint with pain. 



214 BUE. 

And deep despair of all tbe coming time 1 
So well I knew the fierce tenacity 
With which my constant heart would cling to those 
Who once have passed its portals, ever closed 
Save to the few who have its pass-word learned ; 
So well I knew that naught save years of time — 
From whose intensity of suffering 
My sore heart shrank — could free me from the bonds 
Of this great love which had unbidden come — 
Of this great pain which was its fruit and sura. 
And never silent longing for the press 
Of fingers whose magnetic touch had drawn 
My heart from out my keeping into his ; 
For hours of such companionship, so fnll, 
And dear, and sweet as we had sometime known ; 
For all his love — j^ea, all! and all his life, 
To round, and to perfect, and fill my own ; 
I coveted the man whose nature seemed 
The complement of mine ; forwcll I knew 
The world no other held unto whose heart 
Mine could respond, as his. It was to me 
Most aggravating, bitter, hard, to see 
* All that ray heart had e'er desired, or asked, 
Before it spread so temptingly and full, 



BUE. 21S 

Which yet it was foi-bidd"!! to grasp, or e'en 

To covet for its own ; to know the love 

As sweet, and jiure, and true as hers who wore 

Upon her finger a betrothal ring. 

Was, by one act of his, sealed years before, 

To me a sin and a disgrace become ; 

She was congratulated — and I shamed ; 

And yet my love was good, and great, and strong. 

In kind, degree, and measure, as was hers. 

At times the madness of deep anger surged 

In wild, strong waves within my troubled breast ; 

First at myself, that I was powerless 

To tear this fierce, tormenting passion out, 

Though with it came my heart. Aye, I'd been glad 

To know that I should feel it ne'er again 

With a)iy thrill of deep affection stir. 

Why should I cherish love in any form, 

Since 'twas a torment and a pain alone — 

At least the loves which I had won or known ! — 

Anger with him, that when he knew me calm, 

Contented, peaceful, he should so have come 

And broken softly in my guardless heart. 

This seldom ; he had been so gen'rous, kind, 

So true and tender to me, not for lonar 



216 RUE. 

Could I feel aught of anger toward him. 

Sometimes, I fear my wrath beat, impotent, 

Against the heart of God, who thus could send, 

Or could permit such suff'ring as I bore. 

But this I knew was Satan's whisper low. 

And soon I ceased to listen to its flow. 

"With all the rest, the sharpest, fiercest pangs 

Of jealousy a human heart can know. 

Whose torture was more deep than words can show. 

"So raged the conflict in my heart, made up 
Of many elements, and stirring to 
Its utmost deeps, each passion that had lain 
So long untouched and quiet there. Indeed, 
I had not dreamed so much of sin, of deep 
Deceptive wickedness still lingered in 
The heart which had, by sternest discipline, • 
Been chastened o'er and o'er ; I had not thought 
My faith could stagger and grow pale beneath 
The force of any blow which could be dealt 
By pain or by temptation. I had thought 
'Twas grappled firmly ; that no storms could lift 
Or drag it, leaving my poor bark to drift 
Thus helplessly at mercy of the storm. 



RUE. 217 

But these dark days had taught me many things 
That tore and tortured with their venomed stings. 

" So beat my spirit's drooping, broken wings 
Against the love, which lifted up its head 
In scorn of all the poor weak strokes which they 
Had pow'r to give ; and stronger grew each day, 
For all my struggles, its tormenting sway. 

"Some sorrows have their compensations ; this — 
Oh, God ! this 7ione could offer to my heart. 
It had no sweetness ; balm ; no meed of joy ; 
No promise for the future ; naught which could 
Give recompense, though slight, for all the wild 
And turbid agony that tore my heart, 
And left it stinging with a constant smart. 

" Hope, courage, youth, ambition — all were dead I 

Were ? ah, they are ! I have no hope in life ; 

No courage to endure the years to come ; 

And no ambition for the work I loved. 

All, all are dead. All stricken from my heart 

By this unfortunate and wretched love. 

The future is a rayless, cheerless blank ; 
10 



218 RUE. 

The past a blotted record full of jjain ; 

The present one long strife of sharp regret, 

Of longing, and of grief. How dark before 

The years stretch outward ! oif' ring to my view 

Not one sweet promise of a brighter day. 

To comfort give, or be ray spirit's stay. 

Oh, God ! oh, God ! 'tis more than I can bear !" 

And, in the madness of my deep despair. 

Ignoring her who still knelt at my side. 

Whose hands still clasped me, on the window seat 

I threw my arms, and bent my throbbing head, 

While dry, hard sobs broke from my aching heart, 

And from the lips in anguish rent apart. 

And Constance, terror-stricken at the grief — • 
Or at its deep expression — which she saw, 
Sobbed bitterly in sympathy, and held 
Me closer for a moment — then arose 
And paced the floor in deep bewilderment — 
Then back again, and by my side she knelt 
As just before, and murmured through pale lips : 
" My dear, dear friend ! what can I say, what do, 
To compensate, or to atone to you 
For having tlnis persuaded you to give 



BUE. 219 

The story, which recalls so tei'ribly 

The suff'ring of the past, until it swells 

And tears you with such present agony ! 

Believe rae, dear, I knew not what I asked ! 

That such deep pain I'd not have caused your heart 

For all the riches of the world. Forgive — 

Forgive ! To think I had presumed to feel 

My sympathy could ease or soothe the grief 

Whose measure I had truly never guessed, 

Or for its story I had never pressed. 

I did not know — I did not know — forgive ! 

To suffer thus ! oh God, what must it be ! 

How little sorrow e'er has come to rae ! 

How little do I know of grief like this, 

So bitter, and so deep ! " 

She wrung her hands 
In fright and in distress ; and I thrust back 
The passion of despair and agony 
Upon the heart from which it had its way 
So fiercely torn, to break in sobs and sighs. 
When I could speak. I said : " You now will see 
Why I so shrank from telling you the tale 
Of my distressful past, when few days since 
You asked me ; for full well I knew that you 



220 RUE. 

Knew not enough of life, or its intense 

And aggravated woes, to understand 

My story, or my pain. I've told you now, 

And you have seen what words like ' pain ' and ' grief,* 

And ' sorrow,' often lightly used, may mean 

To one who's learned them all by heart. 

Is it not true?" 

" True ? yes ! I've learned to-night 
More things than one. I never can forget 
What you have told me — what I've seen — what felt — 
Or all the love you've shown to me to-night 
In ways so many. But I shall regret 
Forever, causing you to feel again 
Such bitter pain, by having pressed you thus 
To tell me what I had no right to ask. 
And had not, had I guessed what it would be 
To you, to grant my wish." 

" No — you reproach 
Yourself unjustly, Constance," I replied. 
" You did not press me, nor, unless I chose 
To do so, was I forced to thus relate 
The trials I have borne. Another time 
I doubtless had refused you ; but to-night 
The j)ast is very present to my heart, 



RUE. 221 

And from the heart's abundance speak the lips. 
I've told you now the whole, or nearly all, 
And from to-night we'll speak of it no more. 
But little now remains." 

" No, tell me not 
The rest — it is too much. I will not ask 
That you should say another word of what 
So i^ains you," cried the girl. 

" I'll tell the rest— 
'Tis little more," I said. " And then we'll try 
To snatch a brief repose ere breaks the morn, 
And all the sounds of busy life begin, 
A month, or more, or less, passed by, in which 
We seldom met save in a throng, or where 
No words except of matters commonplace 
Could pass between us ; while the love that came 
Unbidden, and so vainly, reared its head 
Still insolently, and retained its sway 
With strong persistency o'er either heart. 
3fy struggles all were impotent to break 
The bonds which seemed of silk, and were of iron ; 
Whose rivets stronger grew with each attempt 
To force, or burst them. He too, well I knew, 
Was trying daily from my place within 



222 RTTE. 

His heart, to thrust me out ; to teach himself 

Fovgetfuhiess of one who had approached 

Too near the inmost chambers of his soul, 

To be so banished — for I also knew 

His efforts were in vain ; that no less deep 

The love he bore me was, than wheti each day 

He came to give me kindly words, and tell 

In eyes, and tones, and hand-clasp warm, and all 

The ways in which love eloquently shows 

Its power and presence, that he loved me well. — 

Knew he was powerless to break the spell 

Which those few hours of close companionship 

Had o'er us cast, and tear me from his heart. 

But what to me was agony, to him 

Seemed to possess sufficient sweetness still, 

To compensate for all tlie pain it gave. 

Or so I judged. Of course I could not tell 

How mightily the pain might rise, and swell 

When there was none to see. I saw him now 

So rarely, that I could not read his heart 

As I had done ere-while, or understand 

The forces working 'neath the manner bland. 

With which to most he masked his feeling's play. 

But I was sure the love held rigid sway 



RUE. 223 

O'er him as me. I read it in his eye, 

And in his deep-flushed cheek, and softened tone, 

Whene'er — where'er we met. Thei'e were, beside, 

A thousand trifles one cannot describe, 

A thousand little acts, and words, and tones, 

Which plainly told his heart was still my own. 

" So passed some time ; and then — he went away. 
I knew 'twas best — I said that I was glad. 
Felt I could better so the battle fight 
With this fierce love, so dominant and strong ; 
That better was my chance of making sure 
The conquest which I felt I must obtain. 
If life henceforth were not to be all vain ; 
That ooily so could I the vict'ry gain. 
But oh ! 'twas hard to have him go — to know 
Day after day must pass v,'ithout one sight 
Of him who was so dear — so dear ! to pine, 
And sigh, and long for one hand-clasp ; one sound 
Of that soft, pleasant voice, to me so sweet ; 
One glance from those dear eyes I loved to meet. 

" He came to say farewell ; we were alone ; 
Reserve was banished ; in the deep-moved tone 



234 RUB. 

With wbich he spoke of what it was to him — 

This separation ; in the eyes all dim 

With tears unshed, with which around the room 

Where we had passed so many pleasant hours, 

He glanced at times, then back upon my face ; 

In lips that trembled visibly, whene'er 

We spoke of how each other we should miss ; 

In hands that held my own in passion's clasp, 

I read and felt the love I long had known, 

Which in that hour strong and unchanged was shown. 

If I had ever doubted — ever felt 

It had grown less — e'er thought I was deceived, 

And that he loved me not, I doubted now 

No longer ; never had it swelled so strong, 

Or spoken to me plainer than that day. 

I had been blind indeed — distrustful e'en 

To folly, had I doubted then the love 

Betrayed in every accent, every line 

Of that dear, tender face I knew so well. 

This was our real parting, though 'twas not 

Our last farewell ; for that was made when 'round 

Us others stood, to Avhom he said good-bye. 

Though gravely, with some pleasant word for each ; 

Then, last, to me he came, took both my hands. 



RUE. 225 

Held them one moment close, looked in my eyes, 

And having spoken not one farewell word, 

He turned away, and went. Ah, had he gone 

Three brief months earlier, all this bitter pain, 

And deep, sad struggle had been spared my heart j 

And I had kept my peace, and my content, 

My trust, and hope, and courage, now all spent ! " 

"And you've not seen him since?" she asked. 

" Not since. 

'Twas but three months agone, and two I've spent 

Among these mountains. In my home, so strong 

Associations were that spoke of him, 

I could not bear them longer ; so I came 

To seek for peace, and for forgetf ulness, 

Amid the deep wild woods, and daisied hills 

Of this sweet country side. I've sought in vain, 

As you have seen. A verj- present pain 

This wretched love is still. The deep desire 

For him, his presence, love, is still as strong, 

And constant, as the day in which I looked 

This hopeless passion in the face, and knew 

My peace was gone for aye. I think I've shown 

I did not then sit down, and tamely yield 
10* 



236 BUE. 

Submission to the thralldom I bad dared, 
But fought against it with my nature's might ; 
And still am fighting, though Vvnthout result, 
Save to increase the strength of bonds that fret. 
But oh, how weary grow I of the strife ; 
The questionings of thought and of desire ; 
The sorrow and the longing never still ; 
Of puzzling o'er the problem, complex, deep, 
Why this has been, and what the mission is 
Of this temptation and this bitter pain — 
To me so useless seeming, and so vain — 
Till heart and brain are weary of the strain." 

" I read to-day," said Constance, " just to-day- 
Or rather yesterday — a thought like this : 
* Temptation may be sent to lead us on 
To greater heights of knowledge, or to depths 
Profounder of experience, than we 
Perchance had known before.' It seemed to me. 
As thus I read, a good and perfect thought ; 
And so I kept it ; so I give it you. 
Perhaps these months of pain may lead at last 
To greater heights than you have yet attained, 
And then you will not feel it all in vain. 



RUE. 227 

Although the compensation must be great, 
Which could raako up for even xjne such hour 
As you have known to-night." 

" It must — 'tis true. 
I doubt not there is purpose in it, too — 
This anguish and temptation I have known ; 
That it was needed or it were not sent. 
I know I have inj'self to blame in much ; 
That I was weak, and wrong ; I know I sinned. 
And so deserve to suffer — as I have, 
God knows ! if suffering can e'er atone 
For sin, mine surely must, for greater far 
The pain than the transgression. I believe, 
However, the temptation came from God, 
To further discipline the heart He saw 
Some chast'ning needed still ; so much there was 
Outside of will, or of desire of ours 
To draw us close ; and so peculiar, too. 
The circumstances neither could control, 
And which combined to aid, at least, in what 
Became results so painful — all to me 
Seemed showing 'twas, if not ordained of God, 
At least by Him permitted — as I said. 
No doubt with purpose wise and good, although 



288 RUE. 

Short-sighted as I am, and blinded, too, 

The pain and anguish by, which it has brought, 

I fail to see its mission, or its power 

To make me bettei* — to increase the faith 

Which stronger seemed ere this dark trial came 

To test and prove it, surely, than 'tis now, 

Or may, I fear, become again for long. 

If he had gone away short space before ! 

Had it not been for this ! and this ! and this ! 

My heart had slumbered still, and so had kept 

The peace, and happiness, and sweet content 

Which it had gained from many troubled years, 

And only won with sighs, and cries, and tears. 

It is this thought — that God permits the paia 

That seems to me so needless ; that He sent 

The great temptation which has robbed my life 

Of all its trust and peace, which makes, at times, 

Rebellion surge so wildly in my breast ; 

Which keeps me from His arms, where once I found 

Such perfect rest and comfort clasp me 'round. 

" It is so bitter to be shown a good 
You had not sought, and had been quite content 
Not to have seen, and yet to be denied 



RUE. 239 

Its full possession, when it comes to have 

At last a priceless value to your heart ! 

It may be years ere I regain the place 

I just had reached ere this temptation came 

And thrust me from it. Do you wonder, then, 

I fail to see its use or its intent ? 

I daily sought God's guidance, and His care, 

And in it trusted. I believe so sought 

It never is withheld. Yet, guarded thus. 

The Tempter reached me still. Can I then doubt 

God, whom I trusted, gave me to his toils? 

And thus believing, is it wonderful 

If in my pain I sometimes do rebel 

That I must suffer thus, perhaps for years, 

And only gain at last upon the path 

Which upward leads to the Celestial Hills, 

An altitude I had attained before ? 

If, feeling thus, I find it difficult 

To lean upon the love I trusted once. 

And still believe He doeth all things well ? 

I do believe it — still ! I Jsnoio 'tis true ! 

But oh, it's hard — so hard, to feel it too. 

Indeed, I better could endure it all. 

Were I not conscious I had strayed away 



230 RUE. 

In such degree from Him who claims my faith ; 
Could I still feel that trust in His dear love, 
And in His tender guidance, wheresoe'er 
My steps might lead, which once to me was sweet, 
And kept me, hopeful, gladsome, at His feet. 
But this I've lost ; and as I've said before, 
While doubting not His power to restore — 
Or e'en His will — my errring, doubting heart, 
My strength seems still too small to do its part." 

" Dear, many times I've heard you say 'tis 
those — 
And only those — whom He, the Father, loves. 
That He doth chasten. And I've read, as well. 
That every branch of His that beareth fruit, 
Hepurgeth that it be more fruitful still. 
When all the pain and strife is quelled at last — 
If that can be — I have no doubt the fruit 
You'll bring as fragrant offering to Him, 
Will be the richer for the discipline 
Tou find so bitter now. This I've been taught 
By you, dear, o'er and o'er in these few weeks 
I've had the joy to know you. Now I give 
The teaching back, with all the comfort sweet 



BUE. 231 

It has the power to yield." 

So Constance said ; 
And I replied : " Thanks ! It is true — the whole ! 
It sJiould ^\\'Q comfort to me — and it does ; 
For God, I know, is better than my thought ; 
And 'tis my sinfulness and doubt alone. 
Not lack of love in Him, which keeps me thus, 
A willful and rebellious child, away 
From all the tender soothing I so need. 
And that He waits to give. I'll try, myself, 
To learn the lesson which you say I've taught 
To you repeatedly ; which you have brought 
So sweetly as an offering to me. 
To comfort in my hour of need. 

" But see ! 
The coming Dawn is clasping 'round the east 
A silver belt, and morn will soon be here. 
Go rest, at least, ere day resumes its sway, 
Though Sleep refuse your bidding to obey, 
And bring to you forgetf ulness, if brief, 
Of this sad night and all its store of grief." 

" And you — will you rest also ? " asked the girl. 



233 RUE. 

" Yes, I'll rest too. When weaned, spent with pain, 
Conies partial numbness to me for a time, 
And I lie passive in the arms of Grief, 
Scarce conscious of her touch, or presence near. 
Then go. Good-night ! Good morning too ! " I bent. 
And clasped, and softly kissed her. 

So she went ! 



11. 



' O grief beyond all other griefs, when fate 
First leaves the youug heart lone and desolate V 



' God's dealings still are love ; His chast'nings are alone 
Love now compelled to take an altered, sterner tone.'' 



The days flit fleetly, and the summer bright 
Lies faint and languishing within the arms 
Of gay-robed Autumn. Through the forest greens 
Has rippled one night's frost wave, leaving there 
Such splendid dashes of deep, glowing red. 
Of mellow amber, gold, and soft-toned bronze. 
It fills the eye with satisfaction deep 



BUE. 233 

To gaze upon the harmony of hue 

Born of the blended contrasts, which the frost 

Has hung all through the forest glooms, and laid 

Upon the sides and summits of the hills. 

A soft blue haze rests, tremulous, above 

The distant valley reaches, softening 

And toning too the outlines bold and strong 

Of the high-sweeping mounts. The atmosphere, 

Steeped in the fragrance which the flowers exhale 

In dying 'neath the cold kiss of the frost, 

And drunken with the odor of ripe grapes, 

Pulsates with slumbrous passion. Cloudlets gray. 

Or fleecy white, and soft as rolls of down, 

Float in the ambience of the upper space, 

Or, higher, rest upon the skies' blue breast. 

And in the gardens sheltered from the frost, 

The scarlet sage its brilliant tassels flaunts ; 

And many-hued chrysanthemums ; and frail, 

Yet hardy morning-glories ; and the pink, 

And white, and purple asters, delicate 

Yet bright in tints ; and all the gay array 

Of Autumn beauties, bravely do their best 

To decorate their mother Earth's kind breast. 



284 RUE. 

September, bright, sweet month, which ushers in 
The new-crowned queen of this half-rounded year, 
In all her gracious loveliness is here ! 

With breath yet warm from Summer's glowing fires 
And fragrant with its ripened fruitage lush, 
She fans sweet Nature's cheek, and smiles to see 
How flushed and fair it grows beneath her breath; 
And with her cool hand dipped in wintry snows, 
She wreathes bright garlands for the Autumn Queen, 
And lays them softly on her royal brow ; 
"Withdraws a space to see how fair they look. 
Then weaves a garment of the same bright hues. 
And glad, yet reverent, on tip-toe stands. 
And robes her in it with her own cool hands. 

September ! slumbrous-eyed, and dreamy-faced, 
And soft-lipped, sweet September ! Of the fair 
Twelve daughters of the mother year, the most 
Bewitching, versatile, and lovely ! Bright, 
Yet soft ; sublime, yet sweet ; gay, with a hint 
Of sadness in her cheeriness, which tints 
Her face with deeper beauty; chaste, and yet 
Impassioned ; fragrant-breathed, and tender-toned ; 



EUE. 235 

Warm-hearted, and cool-handed. Peerless child 
Of the fast ageing year ! 

Two weeks have flown 
On swift, yet sometimes lagging pinions — to 
The weary-hearted — since the bitter night 
Whose waning, moon-lit hours we two — the girl 
Who tasted then the first drops of despair, 
And I who drank once more its brimming draught — 
Watched, till the Dawn, swift-footed, cool, and pale, 
Broke in the east ; and still we linger here, 
And view the changing beauty of the year, 
And marvel at the wondrous loveliness 
The face of Nature takes 'neath Frost's caress. 

The days to me have passed like many more 
Of this most bitter year — with weariness, 
And sighs, and sharp regrets for what my life 
Has missed, and must, through the slow-dragging 

years 
Which stretch between the present, and the bound 
Where time for me shall end, eternity — 
Oh vast, and awful word — for me begin. 
To Constance sadly too has come and gone 
Each rounded day ; though she is brave, and bears 



236 RUE. 

The new, sharp pain which in her life has come, 

With silence, and the courage hearts alone 

As strong, and young, and healthful as is hers, 

Can bring to bear upon so stern a pain. 

Yet there are hours when grief triumphant grows ; 

When, locked within the silence of her room, 

Or shut within the shelter of my arms. 

She lets the gathered anguish of the days 

Of longing, and of self-restraint, break in 

The tears, and moans, and wild, tempestuous sobs, 

Which for the moment ease the burdened heart. 

She's sweet, and gentle, merry oft-times, still ; 

But vanished is the buoyancy, the gay. 

Glad lightness which before was hers. Her cheek 

Grows daily more transparent, delicate, 

And pure in tint and texture ; and her eyes, 

So sweet, and so unclouded when I first 

Within them gazed, seem larger, darker grown, 

And sad, and grave, and wistful ; troubled, too. 

Their outlook has become ; her step more slow 

And listless is ; and all things speak to me 

Of Grief's cold, crushing hand laid on her heart 

So heavily therefrom it presses all 

The gladness and the spring her youth had known 



RUE. 237 

E'er came this blight upon her. Yet her face 

Is sweeter, lovelier far, than ere it wore 

The deeper grace which chast'ning ever gives ; 

Though 'tis a loveliness that makes one sigh ; 

So sad it is to find on face so fair, 

So young, the seal Grief's signet has stamped there. 

The morn that followed that dark night of pain, 
To her, to me, brought calmness to us both — 
The calmness which succeeds a tempest wild, 
But leaves the sky as darksome as before, 
With not one gleam of sun to gild it o'er. 
It brought, beside, from Mr, Denham's hand, 
A note, addressed to me, and which contained 
The farewell and regrets he had forborne 
To speak in person on the previous eve — 
Save to the girl to whom it meant so much. 
By some fatality she took herself 
The missive from his messenger ; and I, 
Who, looking on, beheld her face first flush 
"With vivid color, as she recognized 
The hand in which the letter was addressed, 
Then pale to deadly whiteness, as she saw 
It bore my name, read the wild throb of hope. 



238 RUE. 

And sick'ning faintness of despair, to that 

Succeeding quickly, with a sympathy 

Born of a knowledge of the cruel clutch 

With which Despair doth grasp the heart, and hold. 

Slie passed to me the letter, with no word ; 

Then quietly withdrew, and sought her room ; 

But left a pang within my heart, as well. 

To know how high in hers grief's waves would swell. 

To-day has been a strange and solemn day ; 
And to another of our group has brought 
A new and mighty pain ; to still one more, 
A great, and perfect, and abiding rest. 
Ah, truly, Sorrow's shadow broodeth dark 
O'er all the land ! She touches with her wing 
All hearts in turn — ■with gentle lashings, some. 
With stroke that wounds and prostrates, many a one. 
3Iy heart is full of questions deep, to-night ; 
Of marvelings at God's mysterious ways ; 
And torn with grief for her whose glad young life 
Has had upon it laid to-day, so deep, 
And, to her blinded eyes, so dark a woe ; 
And weary also with the lengthened strain 
Which on its sympathjr has been imposed 



RUE. 239 

By this sad day's events. 

The morning broke 
In beauty almost marvelous, and till 
The noontide came, grew lovelier momently, 
With all the splendid softness which this month — 
This peerless month, with opals crowned and decked — 
Alone bestows on the maturing year. 
The faint, fair Summer, dying fast, to-day 
Has rallied all of her remaining strength, 
And with a semblance of her olden health, 
Sat on her scarcely abdicated throne, 
And smiled upon her subjects. All her cheek 
Was crimsoned with the lovely, hectic flush 
Whose beauty is so fatal ; and her breath 
Blew hot and fevered on our low-bent brows, 
As at her feet we knelt, with loving joy. 
To see the smiling Summer on her throne, 
Where, peerless, she so long had reigned alone. 

Fair Summer ! flushed with beauty and with pride. 
Yet dying, slowly, ling'ringly, as dies 
A maiden, 'neath consumption's fatal touch, 
And grieves to leave the brilliant world, which seems 
So good, and glad, and lovely, to her dreams. 



340 RUE. 

So sped the morn in wondrous loveliness ! 
But ah, the noon disaster brought, and death. 
Still hotter blew the Summer's fevered breath, 
Till sultry all the atmosphere became. 
The sky seemed blazing with a golden flame ; 
A violet mist the distant mountains draped ; 
The heavy air with waves of vibrant heat 
Pulsated strong. And then there was a hush I 
No leaf or flower stirred, so great the calm ; 
No sigh of breeze came grateful to our cheek ; 
The air was stifling in its heaviness, 
And with electric fervors seemed surcharged ; 
Dark, purple clouds rolled slowly up the west, 
Tinged low with copp'ry bronze, and spread, and 

spread, 
Until they vailed the sun's great brazen face. 
And twilight came at noontide. Still the hush, 
If possible, grew deeper — darker still 
The noon. Low rumblings, distant, muffled, rolled 
Along the far horizon, and the gold 
Of light electric slashed the sable skii'ts 
Of the slow-rising clouds. Then woke the wind ! 
A sudden gust, imperative and strong. 
Came, bearing clouds of uprising dust along, 



RUE. 241 

And shook the house its deep foundations on ; 

The casements rattled, and the loose-swung blinds ; 

The trees bent low, and tossed their massi\e arms 

In anger or in fright ; the brilliant leaves, 

Whose hold on life had grown so frail since touched 

With the cold breath of frost, swung, circled swift 

In high raid-air, danced on the eddy'ng wind. 

Tossed hither, thither — in a brilliant shower 

At last to green earth dropping. 

Swiftly, now, 

The black clouds upward surged ; a few great drops 

Struck heavy on the roofs and flag-paved walks ; 

And then our eyes were blinded by the light 

That cut the gathered darkness like a knife ; 

And simultaneously a heavy crash. 

Succeeded by reverberating rolls — 

As though God's chariot, with massive wheels, 

Were sweeping o'er the bosom of the clouds — 

Shook, to its lowest timber, all the house. 

And struck us white with terror. Scarce had ceased 

The echoing rumble of the first great crash. 

Ere came another, and yet others still, 

In quick succession foll'wing ; and the rain. 

As though heav'ns windows open wide had swung, 
11 



243 RUE. 

And yet another deluge was begun, 
In volumes down\?ard poured. 

The rushing rain ; 
The fierce, wild onslaughts of the roaring wind — 
Within the grasp of whose strong sweeping gusts 
The massive trees seemed playthings — with the roll 
And roar of thunder overhead, made up 
A very Babel of confused sounds. 
And in the height of the melee that swelled 
So hotly in the outer world, two clouds, 
Together meeting in mid-heav'n, in wrath 
The falling raindi'ops turned to globes of ice, 
"Which dashed upon our windows spitefully. 
And danced upon the hard-paved walks without, 
Till they were white with hail-stones, lying thick 
Upon each other on the dripping stones. 
And, ruthless, cutting down the tender flowers 
The frost had kindly spared. 

We sat within 
The parlor op'ning to the angry west. 
And watched the tempest warfare. — We whose nerves 
Are sensitively strung, with trembling starts 
At every blinding flash of blue-gold light, 
And every loud, terrific thunder crash ; 



Ei'E. 243 

The gentlemen, with organisms cast 
In firmer, sterner molds, admiring watched 
The lightning's forked play, and joyed to hear 
The thunder's grand reverberating roar. 
And yet, I think a sense of awe on each 
Was resting, as the elemental war 
So grandly, yet terrifically swelled, 
And, angry, beat upon our shelter frail, 
Like show'r of burning shot on iron mail. 

Together I and Constance on the broad 
Old-fashioned sofa sat ; and Sylvia, 
So sensitive to atmospheric change, 
With quiv'ring nerves, and cheek with terror 

blanched. 
Was nestled close within her father's arms, 
Her face upon his shoulder hidden low ; 
While Mr. Disbrow and his gentle wife 
Sat side by side, and hand in hand, removed 
A little space from others of the group. 
We talked of Him who holds the lightning's chain 
Within His mighty hand ; who guides the clouds ; 
And doth control the force and sweep of winds, 
So mighty and so terrible when loosed 



244 BUS. 

From His restraining hold. And then we spoke 
Of that dread scene when on far Calv'ry's hill 
A God in human form gave up his life, 
And died a shameful death to save a world 
By whom He was rejected, scorned, and slain. 
When darkness came at mid-day o'er the land ; 
The earth was shaken ; solid rocks were rent ; 
The graves gave up their sainted dead ; and in 
Yon sacred Temple on Moriah's mount, 
The mystic vail, so curiously wrought, 
Was rent in twain from 'broidered hem to hem. 
And so "the way into the Holiest " 
Was opened once for all ; and once for all 
On that great day our Paschal Lamb was slain, 
And by His precious blood atonement made. 
Not for His own, but for a whole world's sin. 
No wonder that the noon was darkened then I 
That open graves, and trembling earth, and rocks 
Rent to their inmost hearts, should testify 
The wrath of God at this most shameful death 
Inflicted on His well beloved son. 
By an ungrateful world. 

We talked of this, 
And other kindred themes, until at last 



RUE. 245 

The fury of the storm seemed almost spent ; 
The rain-drops gently fell ; the crinkling lights 
More rarely and less dazzlingly flashed out ; 
The thunder muttered sullenly and low 
In the far distance ; and the roaring wind 
Blew gently as a summer zephyr soft. 
Far in the west a lovely patch of blue 
Between light rifted clouds showed, azure deep, 
And promised speedy sunshine. So our nerves 
Relaxed their tight-strung tension, and Ave breathed 
Once more with ease and freeness. Sylvie, too, 
Her bowed head raised, and dared to look without 
On the subsiding tempest. 

From his arms 
Her father gently put her then ; arose, 
And, crossing to the window, wide the sash 
Threw open to the breeze ; stood gazing out 
Upon the dripping landscape, and the fast 
Dispersing clouds, some moments ; then he turned 
With pleasant words upon his lips — of what 
I scarce remember — for just then the room 
Seemed all one blazing, dazzling flash of light — 
A mighty crash o'erhead, which seemed to us 
To tear the roof from its supporting beams. 



246 RUE. 

And fell the walls around us, struck and stunned 

Oar senses for one moment terrible ; 

While, blinded and confused, we cowered low, 

And hid our frightened faces from the light, 

And waited for the mighty roll to cease. 

A strong, sulphureous odor filled the air ; 

And when, uncovering our eyes at last, 

We upward glanced, a haze of light-blue smoke 

Itself was lifting to the ceiling low, 

And floating from the open casement. 

Then 
A piercing shriek of anguish through the room 
Rang startlingly ; and Sylvie, from the chair 
Wherein she crouching sat, half stunned with fright, 
A moment previous, quickly sprang, and rushed 
Across the wide apartment. Foll'wing her 
With eyes surprised and startled, on the floor 
We saw her thrown ; then for the first perceived 
A stalwart figure, prostrate, silent, lay 
A little space the window from removed. 
And slowly on our sense the meaning dawned 
Of that last terrible report, and all 
The dread and sorrowful results with which 
It had been fraught. 



BUE. 247 

The hour that followed this 
Was one of such confusion and suspense, 
I scarce recall its actions or events. 
I IvHow the form insensate of our friend, 
Whose cheery tones, just ere the fatal bolt 
Was hurled within our midst, had pleasantly 
Been ringing in our ears, was laid upon 
The broad, low couch where I had lately sat ; 
That Mr. Brown himself rode off in haste 
To seek for aid from hands more skilled than ours ; 
That everything which could by any chance 
Avail t(T animate again with life 
The form that lay before us motionless, 
Was done — without result. 

Cold, silent, still — 
With lips that wore the pleasant, cheery smile 
We knew so well, but parted not to speak 
The kindly words we had been wont to hear ; 
Or to emit the spent breath, whose last sigh 
Had fluttered through them as the dread bolt came 
And set upon them, in a moment's space, 
The seal of an eternal silence — so 
He, peaceful, lay ! the noble, kindly soul 
Flown without warning to the God who gave I 



348 BUE. ■ 

Launched in a breathing-space upon the waves 
Of that mysterious sea that knows no bound ; 
His new name giv'n — the flask of life's wine broke- 
Cut by Divinity from Earth's stocks free, 
His barque rides light upon that mystic sea; 
And what to us remains — and must, until 
We too are cut adrift from earthly blocks — 
A great and unsolved myst'ry, is to him 
Becoming clearer momently, as floats 
His free soul onward o'er the Avaves of bliss, 
Fast tow'rd the port of Heaven, where awaits 
Surprises sweeter, grander, than his thought, 
Bound in its fleshly house, had ever caught 
Most faint conception of. 

But while to him 
The fatal bolt had brought abiding peace. 
To his poor child it came with sorrow deep. 
And anguish such as her young heart till then 
Had scarce the meaning known or guessed. Awhile 
She seemed half-stunned — incompetent to feel 
Or realize the stroke which thus had made 
The poor child doubly orphaned. When, at last, 
She understood no efforts could avail 
To bring the light of life to those closed eyes, 



RUE. 249 

The tender words she loved to those shut li]3s, 

Her grief indeed was bitter. On her knees 

Beside the couch where lay the silent form 

Of him who was her all, her head upon 

His pulseless breast, she pleaded for one look — 

One loving word — one smile — one dear caress, 

To show he had not left her all alone. 

In tones that touched us to the very heart. 

And when, with no persuasiveness of word, 

Or tone, or touch, she could prevail to win 

From him the dear response she prayed, with one 

Heart-breaking moan she staggered to her feet, 

And with wrung hands, and faint, unsteady steps, 

Paced the apartment's length. 

I drew her then 

Within the clasp of my encircling arm. 

And led her from the room, and up the stairs 

To my own chamber, where I tried to soothe, 

With tearful sympathy, her bitter grief. 

Awhile she rested quiet in my arms ; 

. Then, stung anew with her bereavement's pain. 

She started from my clasp, and paced the room, 

With hot, rebellious words upon her lips. 

And quick, convulsive sobs that brought no tears 
11* 



250 RUE. 

To give relief to her o'er-tensioned heart. 
Her eyes were wide ; her little hands were ice ; 
Her face, so deadly pale, wore on each cheek 
A spot of vivid crimson ; and her lips 
Were white and di'awn in agony that found 
No vent in grateful tears. 

" He is not dead ! 
Oh dear Miss Wheaton, say he is not dead ! " 
She wildly sobbed. *' I cannot bear to know 
That I shall never hear his voice again, 
Or feel his arms around me ; never see 
The dear, sweet smile he always wore for me. 
I cannot bear it — cannot ! He is all — 
All that I have in this great, cruel world ! 
I can't be all alone — all, all alone ! 
I'm but a child. Oh, say he is not dead ! 
God could not be so cruel as to take 
All that I have, and leave me so alone, 
With none to love rae as he loved — not one.''^ 

I for a time attempted no reply 
To these wild pleadings ; for my heart was full- 
Too full for speech, and I had thought perhaps 
Her grief might spend itself in some degree, 



RUE. 251 

In words that gave expression to the thoughts 

Which struck their sting so deeply in her heart. 

Nor was I wrong. At last she seemed more calm ; 

Then I persuaded her to rest awhile 

Upon my bed, and sitting by her side, 

I took her soft, cold hands in tender clasp, 

And gently said : " My child, I know it's hard ; 

That it seems cruel to your stricken heart 

That God should thus bereave you ; but, my love, 

He's never that ; He grieves to wound you so ; 

His tenderness is reaching out to you, 

To clasp you in the arms of greater love 

Than that you just have lost. 'Tis hard to us ; 

We cannot see why one so blameless, pure, 

And upright in his character and life. 

Should be thus suddenly called home to God, 

His life-work seemingly left incomplete. 

And you, whose need of him is great indeed, 

Left lonely and alone by this sharp blow 

Which takes him from you. But we know 'tis God 

Who gives the stroke ; and knowing this, are sure 

'Tis for a purpose wise. He looks beyond 

The bounds our feeble vision can leap o'er. 

And sees the issues which the future years 



253 BUE. 

Shall gather in their grasp ; and so He knows 
What for our dear ones shall be best ; so acts ; 
He has but stepped into the lower room, 
And bidden him, your father, higher come. 
To this great feast of love He has prepared. 
It is not wrong, but honor God has done 
Your dear one, Sylvie. He's but summoned him 
To taste of pleasures that shall never pall ; 
New, full, rich, measureless, and perfect all." 

The child had listened silently, but now 
She drew her nervous hands from out my hold. 
And clasped them tightly o'er her throbbing head. 
" I know — I know 'tis well with him," she said, 
While o'er her face a spasm deep of pain 
Came, leaving lines of agony set plain — 
"But oh, for me — what shall I, can I do ! 
How can I live without him — all alone 
In this great world, with none to love me more — 
To care for me, or guard me — me a child — 
No father — mother — none who is ray own. 
I know God loved him well, for he was good. 
And served Him faithfully ; but oh, to me 
He's cruel, cruel thus to take my all, 



RUE. 253 

And leave me so alone." 

Ah, thus it seemed 
To me, as well ; or would, had I not known 
God never errs, and loves e'en while He smites. 
I felt how poor were words to soothe such grief ; 
But still, with quiv'ring lips, and aching heart, 
I made attempt some comfort to impart. 

" ' Like as a father pitieth a child ' 
So God doth pity you ! " I softly said. 
" Nor doth He willingly afflict. My love, 
You are His child ; dear to His heart divine — 
Aye, dearer far than to that tender one 
Whose every pulse responded to your own. 
Until God's hand was on it laid, and hushed 
Its throbbings to eternal stillness. So 
He could not to His own be cruel. No ! 
In love He's given you this bitter blow, 
With purpose wise we must believe, although 
We in our blindness cannot see it now. 
'Tis whom He loves He scourges ; only those ! — 
Like as a father chasteneth a child, 
Who finds it hard and bitter for the time. 
But needful lessons doth acquire thereby. 



254 RUE. 

Nor are you all alone. A mighty arm 

Which doth uphold ' the government of worlds,' 

Holds you in clasp most tender. And no harm 

Can e'er approach one who is sheltered thus. 

An eye of love, unsleeping, watches o'er 

Each guardless moment of your day or night. 

A hand all powerful, all tender too. 

Directs — and loill — your stejjs where'er they lead ; 

Nor can they fail or falter, guarded thus. 

Not lone then, darling ; for our 'God shall give 

Ilis angels charge concerning thee,' to keep 

All danger from thy path.'* 

Her eyes on mine 
Were fixed in thoughtfulness, the while she heard. 
And pondered Avhat I said. I feared to her, 
Till now a careless and unthinking child. 
These truths, so great and beautiful, would seem 
But empty words, which had no life to her. 
So I was glad, e'en for a moment brief, 
They held her thought, and quieted her ginef. 

At last she clasped her hands across her eyes, 
And murmured low : " Ah, that seems so unreal ; 
I can believe it, but it's hard to feel 



BUE. 255 

I thus am loved and guarded. 'Tis not like 

Jlis arm that clasped me with such tender love ; 

His guiding hand that ever would remove 

All evils from my path. And oh, to think 

It's from me gone forever ! that no more 

Through all my life, I can the loving care 

Which so has wrapped and blessed me, know or feel ! 

That I shall never, never see him more — 

My papa — oh, my papa ! " 

In a moan 
The last words died, and all I'd said seemed vain ; 
Nor could I wonder, while this new sharp pain 
Tore at her heart so miglitily and strong. 
I laid my face beside hers, pressed my hand 
"With tenderness upon her burning cheek, 
And for a little moment spoke no word. 
And then I said : " No, dear, he is not gone 
So far away you ne'er will see him more. 
A little while — it seems o'er long just now, 
I know, my child — but still a little while, 
And you shall meet to sever never more. 
All pain, all parting shall be over then ; 
And on through endless ages, you shall know, 
And shall enjoy the love that blessed you here, 



256 RUE. 

And which you'll miss but for a little time, 
And then find, pure, perfected." 

" Ah, who knows ! 
I am not good — as he — I may not gain 
The place where he has gone — where pain, you say, 
And parting ne'er is known !" she cried. 

" You may, 
If such your wish. God will not turn away 
From you. His child, when you shall seek Him, 

dear. 
He'll fold you quickly in His love's embrace, 
And give you tend'rest welcome." 

O'er her face 
A faint light broke a moment ; then she said : 
*' But even then I might not know or find 
Him I so love, or he might be so glad 
With years of Heaven's delight, and its content, 
He'd care but little for the child he left 
So lonely in this world." 

" My darling, no ! 
That could not be ! and so I'm sure you feel. 
Love is perfected there, pure from all dross 
Of worldliness, and selfishness, and all 
The human passions that make love's alloy 



BUE. 257 

As now we know it. If he loved you here, 

He'll love you better there, believe me, dear ! 

E'en Pleav'n's rich gladness will seera incomplete, 

I feel assured, till at the Savior's feet 

He low can bend, presenting you, his child. 

And in the cycles of Eternity, 

Earth's lengthened years are passing short and few ; 

So what seems long to you, to him will be 

But briefest space in Heaven's measured time; 

Not long enough to bring forgetfulness 

Of you he loved so well — nor now loves less. 

Nor will you fail to know him there — or find. 

Freed from its hamp'ring, clogging robe of flesh, 

The spirit's pow'rs must surely know access 

Of versatility, of knowledge, strength. 

And apprehension, rather than decrease. 

We shall know more, believe me, and not less, 

When all that loves, remembers, understands, 

Shall be no longer bound by fleshly bands. 

And though Heav'n's spaces may be vast indeed, 

And numberless their inmates, yet when freed 

From all that cloggeci it here, the spirit's wings 

Will buoyant bear it through ethereal space. 

And you shall see again your father's face, 



258 RUE. 

And hear once more the dear, familiar voice — 
Together through Heav'n's ages to rejoice." 

" That all is good, I know !" she, fretful, said, 
After brief silence. " But it is too deep 
For my distracted thought to comprehend, 
Or my poor aching heart to I'ealize. 
Forgive ! I cannot help it. All I now 
Can feel or know, is that I've lost the world ; 
That he has gone and left me here alone ; 
That while to others countless friends are given — 
Parents and sisters, brothers, cousins, all 
The dear relationships of home, from me 
God now has taken all I had — the one 
Who took the place of these — and left me lone." 

I sighed. I thought I'd spoken simply, what 
Should give her comfort in her grief, and felt 
I signally had failed. But now I see 
I had expected of her o'er-wrought brain, 
And troubled heart, too much. I had forgot 
That what was plain to me, would come to her 
As new, deep thoughts which needed pondering, 
Ere she their fullest meaning could take in ; 



RTJE. 359 

That now her mind was too confused, her heart 

Too sore this to appropriate, and gain 

Therefrom the needed comfort ; hut I think 

That what I said, and she so earnestly 

Had listened, will sometime recur to her, 

With all the force and pow'r the thoughts may own, 

Though now they seemed but wasted words alone. 

Some moments passed ere I to her replied ; 
And then I said : *' My dear, I know it's hard ! 
My heart aches for you more than I can tell. 
I know just what it is — how sharp the pang — 
To feel one must resign what gives to life 
Its sweetest flavor, most enduring joy. 
While others grasp, and, careless, drink at will 
The draught of sweetness life to us denies. 
'Tis hard, and bitter. Hard to be resigned. 
But ah, we have no choice. Imperative 
The must God speaks to our rebellious hearts. 
If to His will we bow submissively. 
He comes and gives us comfort in our pain ; 
Binds up the wounds His hand, reluctant, made ; 
And with His love oft ' makes the balance good.' 
I know how hard it is that you should lose 



260 RUE. 

The one dear friend who took the place to you 
Of every other ; and I would not, dear, 
Reprove you for the grief one must endure 
When ties so strong and sweet are broken thus. 
Nor yet would God. Christ wept, Himself, to know 
His friend beloved was lying in the tomb. 
Though in His word the power dwelt to break 
The seal of silence Death had set upon 
The rigid limbs of him He dearly loved. 
But though to me, as you, it seeras that God 
Has chosen one to swell the ranks of Heaven 
Whom earth can illy spare, we still must feel 
He hnoioeth best. His counsels cannot fail. 
His wisdom cannot err. 'Twas he, your dear. 
Your loving father whom his God required — 
Not mine, nor Constance' ! yours ! I cannot tell — 
I would not dare presume to question how 
Or wherefore it is thus. It is of God ! 
It is, and must be right ! " 

She turned away, 
And covered with her hands her ashen face. 
And made no answer. From the table near 
1 took a book, and op'ning it, I read 
In low, soft, even tones, what seemed, or was 



RUE. 261 

The further utt'rance of tlie thouglits my lips 
So feebly had expressed. I knew, indeed, 
She in their fullness scarce would comprehend 
The words I read, but still I hoped she might 
Sufficient grasp to hold her troubled thought ; 
And that my voice, in intonation low, 
Might lull her to the blest repose of sleep, 
Which she so sorely needed. 

For the most 
She quiet lay, and listened while I read. 
Sometimes she tossed in restlessness, the while 
Her face took on the rigid lines of pain ; 
And then some word would catch her thought again. 
And quiet would return. At last, sweet Sleep 
Bent down and softly kissed her ; and her brow 
Reposeful grew, and calm. But 'twas, indeed, 
Most pitiful to see the childish face 
So pallid, and so worn ; the circles dark 
Beneath her closed eyes pencilled ; and the lips 
So sweet and merry, drooped with sadness deep, 
Not banished even by the kiss of Sleep. 

My book dropped from my hand ; and with a sigh 
Of weariness, and of relief, I leaned 



263 BUE. 

My head iipon the cushions of my chair, 

And sought for heart and brain rest from the strain 

Th(. last hours had imposed. 

I glanced without. 
The landscape peaceful lay, as though no storm 
Had swept its fury o'er it since the morn, 
And in a moment's space dealt death to one, 
And to another of our little group, 
A living, lasting grief. 

The day had drawn 
Serenely tow'rd the evening ; and ere long 
Prepared to drop into the arras of Night. 
I, resting, watched its beautiful decline ; 
While thought, spent by exertion, scarcely stirred, 
Or formed itself into one conscious word. 

So waned the day ! Far in the lovely west 
A globe of dead red molten gold swam deep 
Within a sea of vi'let mist. Above, 
Rifts in the purple edged with burnished gold ! 
And higher still, light waves of pearly gray. 
And palest amber on a faint sky lay. 
All the horizon, from the pale, cold north. 
To where the sweep of sun-touched south embraced 



BUE. 2G3 

The willing east, soft tints of vi'let clone! ! 
And on the zenith, fleecy, pulsing waves. 
Rippled with golden white, and shading out 
To delicatest grays, which deeper grew 
As farther from the setting sun they flew ! 

So died the day ! And as the sunset light 
Fast yielded to the gray of coming night, 
My sleeping charge awoke. She did not stir, 
And I was startled, when I glanced at her 
Not knowing she had wakened, to perceive 
Her wide eyes fixed upon my face, surprise, 
Inquiry, and a sense of trouble vague 
Within their azure depths. I softly smiled, 
But spoke not. Then I saw a consciousness 
Of this disastrous day's events, slow dawn 
Upon her clouded mind. Her childish brow 
"With pain contracted ; and her sweet, drooped lips 
Grew tremulous, as, shutting in her hands 
Her quiv'ring face, with one low moan she turned 
Upon her pillow, while the sobs that came 
At recollection of her grievous loss, 
With violence that shook her tender frame, 



264 RUE. 

Brought with them plenteous tears. Kind sleep had 

given 
A healthier tone to her distracted mind, 
And over-burdened heart. And now her grief 
Had found the medium of relief, which is, 
To youth at least, so natural. 

And still 
I spoke no word, but left her to her tears, 
Till partial calmness was again restored. 
And then I soothed her witli caress, and words 
Of sympathy, and tenderness, and cheer ; 
Assurance of God's goodness and His love ; 
Of her dear father's happiness and weal. 
To which she listened, sometimes with renewed 
And anguished bursts of tears ; but in a mood 
More gentle and receptive than before, 
And more submissive too- 

She's sleeping now, 
In quietness, on yonder couch ; while I, 
With nerves still quiv'ring from the strain intense 
Imposed upon them through this lengthened day ; 
And with a whirl of thoughts and questionings 
Revolving tirelessly within my brain. 
All through the midnight's deep, unbroken hush. 



RUE. 265 

Wake still — unwisely, well I know, for on 

The morrow we shall bid adieu to all 

The deep'ning splendor of these mountain wilds. 

And with the poor, bei'eaved, and sorr'vving child, 

Whose heli^less youth, and utter loneliness, 

Appeals so strongly to our sympathies, 

Again our far homes seek. Great then ray need 

Of sweet, reposeful slumber, to restore 

Both physical and mental strength once more. 

And still I wake : with wonderings at God's 
Strange ways of working ; counsels that to us 
Are truly past all finding out : with thoughts 
Which forward press into tlie future days. 
Through which yon lonely child must tread, with 

none 
To guard or to restrain save Him whose care 
Seems so unreal, intangible to her : 
With all my own past sadly rushing back 
Ul^on my shrinking heart, to know how soon 
Home scenes, familiar, dear, will greet my eye ; 
And standing in the room whose every niche 
With old associations is replete — 
13 



206 RUE. 

Associations sweet and j^ainful too — 

The pain I there have known shall feel anew.' 

And yet my heart leaps wildly, as I think 
I may perchance behold his face so dear ; 
The pleasant voice whose lightest tone to me 
Is music's own, I once again may hear ; 
And look within the eyes whose glance I ne'er 
Or cold, or careless found. And still I know 
It were not best for me, or him, that so 
We two should meet ; and still my human heart, 
Filled, thrilled with the intense of human love 
Which has for him its object, with a might 
No force of will can perfectly control, 
Longs for his presence dear, longs for the depth 
And 2:)erfectness of S3'^mpathy, which he, 
And he alone, has pow'r to give to me. 

The night is still, and calm, and pure, and sweet ; 
With myriad star-worlds lighted, and perfumed 
AVith flow'rs of Autumn, and the scent of leaves 
Whose blood is chilled and stilled by Autumn frosts. 
The midnight calm its contrast to the deep 
And powerful unrest which throbs within 



RUE. 267 

My thought-stung heart, strikes sharply on my sense, 

And makes my restlessness yet more intense, 

Till with a sigh of j^ain I turn away 

From the oped casement, and ray tired frame lay 

Upon my couch, and wide-eyed, wait the day. 



PART FOURTH. 
COMPENSATION. 



PAKT FOURTH. 

COMPENSATION. 



" Separation had but sweetened love, 
And joy of meeting recompensed the pain 
Of parting and of absence." 



' The rose is dead, the fancy broken I'' 



A ROOM with shadows dusky, though the noon 

Is pulsing warm and brilliantly without ! 

An open desk, with many papers strewn ! 

Piled manuscript thrust carelessly aside ! 

Books heaped around ! an open window near ! 

And I, an idle pen within my hand, 

Borne on the wings of rev'ry to a land 

Of images unreal, where the ghosts 

[371] 



273 G0MPEN8A TIOK 

Of checkered days gone by, and footsteps still 
Of those to come, are wandering at will ! 

Without, a world one flush of loveliness ! 
The trees luxuriate in their flutt'ring dress 
Of tend'rest green, looped up with garlands white. 
And faintest pink, whose perfume fills the air 
With palpitating sweetness ; while the snow 
Of falling apple-blooms lies white upon 
The verdant cov'ring of the orchard's feet. 
The lawns are velvet, bordered deep with beds 
Of tulips gay, and sweet-breathed hyacinths, 
And pansies, lifting up their faces grave 
And beautiful with " thoughts " — perchance of all 
The mysteries which wrap the birth of flowers, 
And flutter through their frail life's fleeting hours. 
The lilac buds are op'ning purple eyes. 
And only half awake, gaze with surprise 
Upon the beauty lying all around. 
From trellised balconies, and house-eaves tall. 
The fluttering wisteria to the breeze 
Flings out the color exquisite that tints 
Its drooping, rounded clusters. And more sweet 
Than all, deep hidden in the springing grass. 



COMPENSATION. 273 

Blue violets are drooping, fair and shy, 

And breathing fragrant welcome to the spring, 

And whisp'ring they are " faithful," while they 

teach 

A lesson of humility to all 

Who read their open faces. In the woods 

I know the fragile wind-flow'r is abloom ; 

The sturdy ferns unrolling feath'ry fronds ; 

And all the world of verdure is awake, 

And rife with tend'rest beauty. 

Knowing this ; 

And gazing on the loveliness without. 

Which feasts my eye with pleasure most intense ; 

And breathing the delicious air that floats 

In fragrant softness through my half-closed blinds ; 

And listing the rich trills of building birds, 

Whose music fills and ravishes the ear, 

What wonder if my idle pen is dropped, 

My half-writ sheets pushed carelessly aside. 

And yielding to the dreamy, witching tide 

Which on its bosom bears the wakened Spring, 

I work no more, but fill the passing hour 

With dreams that hold me by their magic power. 
12* 



274 COMPENSATION. 

Oh wondrous waking of the sleeping Year ! 
Oh lovely starry eyes of many a hue, 
Which open coyly on the wooing world, 
And in its face smile back with tender joy ! 
Oh flower-lips, which by the sunny Spring 
Kissed into consciousness, breathe back again 
The fragrance buried in your chaliced hearts ! 
Oh tuneful choir, which come on buoyant wing, 
Obeying, glad, the mandate of the Spring, 
A tribute of melodious song to bring — 
"We give you welcome, joyous aud sincere, 
And greet with you the waking of the Year j 

"Wrapped close in dreams, whose magic, filmy folds 
Clung round me, shutting out the present hour — 
Save as its charm of sight, and scent, and sound, 
So subtly, yet almost unconsciously 
My senses penetrated — dreams in which 
The sadness of the present and the past 
Inextricably mingled, I scarce heard 
The op'ning door, or rustle soft of silk. 
Or footsteps light upon the carpet pressed. 
And started when across my eyes were laid 
Gloved fingers, aud a laugh, low, soft, and sweet, 



COMPENSATION. 275 

The utter silence broke, I caught the hands 
From my imprisoned eyes, and looking up, 
Beheld, surprised, the lovely, laughing face 
Of Constance bent above me. Then she stooped 
And kissed me softly, and I rose to give 
A warm and cordial greeting to the girl, 
Whose lovely face I had not looked upon 
In many months till now. 

" Dear child," I said, 
As holding her aloof, I looked within 
Her deep and smiling eyes, and noted there, 
A wondrous brilliant light, while on her cheek 
A faint flush rested soft. " I am more glad 
To see you here than words have pow'r to tell. 
You are as welcome as the tlowers of spring ; 
And, like them, back to me the fragrance bring, 
And thoughts and memories of other days. 
I am so glad to see you once again. 
And see you bright and joyous as of old. 
I'm sure you've something pleasant to unfold. 
I read it in your eye, and lip, and all 
The bright expression of the face I learned 
So perfectly, in every varying mood. 
Almost a year ago." 



276 COMPENSATION. ) 

She laughed again, 
And deeper on her cheek the rose became, 
And then she softly said : " You've read aright. 
God has been good to me — so good ! and giv'n 
My heart's desire, unworthy as I am 
Of happiness so perfect and entire. 
And as I came to you, and on your breast 
Sobbed out my grief when it was new and fresh. 
And, for the first, learned how divine a thing 
Is sympathy, from one who through a deep 
Experience of suffering knows how 
To feel for others who are sorely tried. 
So now I come to you with ray great joy, 
And know your sympathy in that will be 
As perfect, and as deep, as in my hour 
Of bitter pain." 

" Not through experience, though, " 
I answered, with a smile for her, and for 
Myself a sigh. " For on the other side 
Joy, like the Levite, passes by, nor brings 
Her soothing oil and wine to heal my wounds. 
But I am glad, dear, if to you she proves 
More gracious, and more kind. I can rejoice 
In your deep happiness as perfectly — 



COMPENSATION. 277 

Aye more, perhaps, than if 'twere mine as well. 

For joy, like grief, is selfish, and it oft 

Wraps its possessor so within the world 

Of its own thoughts, desires, and hopes, they find 

No place for other's miseries, no place 

For other's happiness to creep within. 

But tell the story, dear, I wait to hear. 

And be assured it gives me pleasure deep 

To know the night is past, and day is come 

To gladden your young heart." 

Her eyes were dim, 
Her sweet lips trembled as she made reply : 
" My dear, dear friend ! oh, I had hoped these months 
Which have been kind to me, had brought to you 
Their treasured joys as well ! that sweet content, 
And peace, and, better, happiness, and hopes 
Brought to fruition, had to you, dear, come, 
And given back youth, hope, ambition, all 
Which was by sorrow stricken from your heart 
When last we parted." 

" Well, the months for me 
Have something done," I answered. "But of this 
We'll later speak. Just now I'm wishing, dear, 
The story of your happiness to hear." 



278 COMPENSATION. 

" 'Tis brief and simple, but it means — so much ! " 
She made reply, the while a lovely flush 
Crept to her blue-veined temples. " It is scarce 
Three weeks since I was both surprised 
And, more than pleased, delighted, to receive 
A call from Mr. Denham, who, not since 
That bitter night we parted by the gate 
Among those lovely mountains, had I seen. 
Awhile I was so glad I scarcely thought 
Of that great barrier which between us lay, 
And fear I showed my gladness all too plain. 
When recollection came to rae at last, 
And I had fain the question of him asked 
If he were 'Benedict, the married man,' 
My trait'rous tongue the words refused to form ; 
For well I knew it were impossible 
I should the query carelessly propound, 
Or playfully, as I would fain have done. 
And so I nothing said, though all my thought 
Ai'ound the question hovered, which my lips 
So utterly refused to shape in words. 
So came a grave restraint my manner o'er ; 
Which he, perceiving, soon arose to go ; 
And as he took my hand to say farewell, 



COMPENSATION. 279 

And gravely looking in ray upturned face, 

Read in my eyes, I think, the query I 

Had wished to utter plainer, smiled, and said : 

' When last I saw you, on that lovely eve 

Among the mountains, when I said good-bye, 

Perhaps you recollect I asked beside 

Good wishes for another — her, my bride, 

Who held my promise, and to whom I went 

Short space thereafter, with the full intent 

Most loyally my promise to fulfill. 

'Tis true I had ere this a struggle, brief 

But strong, with will and inclination held ; 

But I had triumi^hed, and most loyally. 

As I have said, I sought my promised bride. 

My heart close shutting unto all beside. 

I found her — changed I her cheek was pale and thin ; 

Her eyes now held a restless light within ; 

And tliough she strove to make her greeting kind. 

And even tender, as had been her wont, 

'Twas all so forced I could not fail to see 

That she was changed indeed, and changed to me. 

The pang was sharp with which I faced the truth, 

And understood that in the few brief weeks 

Since we bad parted, love, the love built np 



280 COMPENSATION. 

Through many months of pleasant intercourse, 
Had fallen prone, and now in ruins lay- 
Before our conscious eyes. Awhile I still 
Beside her tarried, waiting patiently 
To be assured this was no passing mood. 
Which should ere long give place to one more kind, 
And show her still unchanged. But all in vain ; 
Her health seemed failing rapidly, and she 
So fretful grew I scarce had known the girl ; 
While it was plain she shrank from each attempt 
Of mine the old I'elations to resume 
Between us late existing. But at last 
I found the clue, and all to me was plain. 
We met one evening one, who, till that hour 
To me a stranger, seemed a certain 23ower 
O'er her who was beside me to possess ; 
For quickly o'er her cheek the white and rose 
Each other chased, her manner grew constrained. 
And white and tremulous the lips with which 
She sought the lively chatter to sustain, 
Which should her strange embarrassment restrain. 
I made no comment ; but, the foll'wing day, 
I sought an explanation of the cause 
Of change so marked as over her had come. 



COMPENSATION. 281 

She grew so white I started with alarm ; 

But rallying all her force of strength and will, 

She frankly said, ' Yes, Dane, I'm changed, I know. 

The love I thought you had possessed entire, 

Another claims and holds, spite of desire 

And effort on my part to keep it yours. 

You'll say I'm false and fickle. It may be — 

But I have sought to constant be, and true ; 

And query sometimes were it not less false 

To break the promise I have made to you. 

Than, keeping it, permit you to possess 

A wife whose heart no longer is your own. 

This query you shall answer. If you wish, 

The whole truth knowing, I will keep my word, 

And, wedding you, my utmost power exert 

To make your home life happy.' With a sigh 

Of deep relief, she paused, and I replied : 

' Nay ! to God's altar I will lead no bride 

With falsehood on her lips. Could you the vows 

So solemn and so sacred make, and know 

Yourself to keep them pow'rless ? It is best 

Since I no more your perfect love possess, 

Wa part at once. I leave you free ; and pray 

God through another may bestow on you 



283 COMPENSATION. 

The happiness it seems I coukl not give.' 
I bade her soon a long but kind farewell. 
And so we parted — who had thought before 
To walk through life together, hand in hand, 
Till we should reach the other, fairer land.' 

"This was tlie story which he told, as we 
Together stood, my hand in his, my eyes 
Wide with inquiry, and a soft surprise. 
Fixed on his face. He finished with a sigh, 
Resuming in a moment : ' I confess 
Awhile I felt a stern and sharp regret 
At this disastrous ending of a love 
On which I'd built so many pleasant hopes. 
And then another crept within my thought, 
Whom I had sought to thrust therefrom before, 
But now with warmest welcome was received ; 
Another face before me came so oft, 
That I began to question close my heart 
As to its meaning ; and I found — ' " 

She paused, 
But with a simile, and vivid blush, she soon 
Continued : " Well, you guess the rest. The love 
He had resisted with his utmost strength 



COMPENSA TlOy. 283 

While to another bound, had come at length 
To be the strongest passion of liis life — 
So he declared. And so — he came that nisrht 
To learn if there were hope for hira with me. 
Of course you know he could not in ray face, 
Which treach'rously my every thought betrays, 
Look long, and doubt his full success. Indeed, 
I found that I should speak there was no need ; 
For ere I scarce was conscious what he meant, 
He in my e3^es had read the wished assent 
And sealed it — on my lips. 

"Dear, I believe 
That was the happiest hour I e'er shall know. 
I'd taught myself to think of him as one 
Forever lost to me ; as lost as though 
I'd seen the grass grow green above his grave ; 
As one whom for a moment I had met 
In life's broad way — whose eyes had smiled on me — 
Whose hand had clasped my own in pressure warm — 
Whose gracious woi'ds had gladdened all my heart — 
And who had then, regretful, said farewell. 
And passed along the road that led so far 
Away from that in which my feet must walk. 
Where I should doubtless meet him never more. 



284 compensation: 

'Tis true I used to think what it would be 

'']"'o have it otherwise; to have him mine ; 

To see him in my home, among ray friends, 

My true, acknowledged lover ; fancying 

How he would please and win them ; and how glad 

'Twould make my heart, to see him honored thus. 

I used to fancy just what it would be, 

To have him by my side amid the throng — 

In all my walks — -through all the lovely hours 

Of quiet evenings, which so lonely passed — 

As others have the one their heart prefers. 

To dream of all the tender care I knew 

He would surround me with ; the constant thought ; 

The full companionship ; the pleasant speech 

On all the joys and int'rests of my days. 

And when I looked on others of my age 

And circle, who were blest with care like this ; 

And sweet association with the one 

Their heart had chosen, with a keen wild pang 

Of loneliness and longing, I would cry, 

As s.truck the contrast sharply on my heart : 

* Ah, why am I alone denied the joy 

So freely giv'n to others ? why must I 

Alone, walk lone and lonely through the world, 



COMPENSATION. 285 

While others are surrounded by the friends 
Their heart holds dear and precious ? ' 

" Yet, since then, 
I've sometimes thought I was not in those days 
So lonely as I fancied ; that in truth 
The best part of ray dear one I possessed — 
His souVs companionship ; and that while I 
So constantly in spirit summoned him 
Beside me, list'ning to his pleasant voice, 
Whose tender intonation, as sometimes 
In that sweet summer, it had fallen soft 
Upon my ear, I never could forget ; 
In fancy feeling oft again the warm 
Close clasp of his dear hand ; and now and then 
The tender pressure even of the lips 
Whose touch my own had known not, I could not 
Be utterly alone ; and that he too 
Must have the influence felt of all the thought, 
And tenderness of sympathy I gave. 
And constant sweet communion which my heart 
In fancy held with his ; yet, at the time, 
I did not see or feel this ; only felt 
That I was lonely, lonely ; and deprived 
Of all my heart desired. And when I saw 



286 COMPENSATION. 

How lightly, carelessly, their crown of love 
So many, many wove ; how recklessly 
They risked, by petulance or coquetry, 
Unreasoning exactions or demands. 
The loss of what they had not learned to prize ; 
How they abused the pow'r and influence 
Placed in their hands, for selfish ends alone 
Oft exercising it, regarding not 
The preference or pleasure of the one 
They yet professed to love, proud to display 
The power which they fancied they possessed, 
I used to think — Ah, not like this, had I 
The precious gift of love used or abused, 
Had God been kinder, and on me bestowed 
The strong devotion of the heart ray own 
So ardently desired. 

"And yet the while, 
I tried to teach myself, as I have said. 
To think of him as one, though so beloved, 
Yet ever lost to me ; nor did I fail 
Entirely in so doing. Even as 
I summoned him in fancy to my side. 
So constantly, I used to say — Ah, yes ! 
The fancy's passing sweet, but 'tis, in truth, 



compensation: 287 

A fancy only ; for anolhcr claims 

The blessing whicli I dream of ; and apart 

Must lie the paths which lead us thi'ongh this life ; 

But lead us ever upward, to the one 

Where pain nor separation e'er is known. 

"And then to know that he was free, and mine! 
That we had met again, to part no more ! 
That he was there beside me, all his face 
Illumined with the love I had not dared 
To hope would e'er be giv'n me — ah, my friend, 
All I could think was, God is good, so good ! 
I have not this deserved, but oh, 'tis sweet 
To know it's mine ; and God is good — so good! 
And even in that hour, I think I felt 
The months of pain, and struggle, and unrest, 
That I had known since that late summer night 
Which made my hopes a wreck, were not in vain ; 
That dearer and more pi'ecious was his love, 
And deeper, fuller now my happiness, 
Than if so dark a shadow had not lain 
For many months between us. I had scarce 
Appreciated then the boon which now 
Above all else is priceless. Nor had I 



388 C0MPEN8ATI0K 

God's nearness and His love so realized, 
Had I not drank of sorrow's bitter draught, 
And turned to Hitn for comfort as I quaffed." 

"And now He pours the nectar in your cup 

Till it runs o'er with sweets ! " I said with smiles. 

"Be glad, my dear ; but oh, be thankful too ! 

Nor e'er forget in His so priceless gift. 

The kind and gracious Giver. May He grant 

Long years of sweet companionship and joy 

To you, and him who is your young heart's choice, 

And who I know is worthy to receive 

The blessing you so freely, gladly, give. 

I pray no clouds between your hearts may come. 

How dark soe'er the days may 'round you lower. 

And may God's hand of goodness and of power 

Lead you, and him, your whole life's journey through, 

And then in Heaven unite you," 

Saying this, 
I, with a close embrace, and kisses warm, 
Sealed my congratulations. Then she said : 
" We've talked enough of me and my affairs. 
Now tell me of yourself — of Sylvia — 
And all the friends of whom I've heard no word 



COMPENSATION. 289 

Since that sad day we parted." 

" Sylvia 

Is well, and lovely as of old," I said. 

" You'd find her changed, mayhap, since those bright 

days 

Among the mountains, when she seemed, and was, 

A merry, happy, thoughtless child alone. 

We found her lovable and sweet e'en then, 

But now she's more so still. Gay, arch, and bright 

As is her fair face yet, sometimes there steals 

A shade of chastened sadness over it, 

Which makes it sweeter seem, and gives a touch 

Of the i^athetic to its loveliness. 

Most tenderly is her dear father still 

Remembered, and most deeply missed and mourned. 

But she has grown submissive to God's will. 

And has, like you, through suff'ring sweetly found 

How full and deep the comfort God will give 

To sorr'wing hearts, who for it will apply. 

Beside, she too her compensation has, 

In one who is to her a father, friend, 

And lover, all in one. A somewhat grave 

But noble-hearted man ; her senior, too, 

By many years J but he is true and kind, 
13 



390 COMPENSATION. 

And gently tender to the child who gives 
His grave life all the sunshine of her youth, 
And merriment, and sweetness ; and regards 
With reverent affection liim she deems 
So wise, and strong, and good, she wonders oft 
He should in her find aught he could approve, 
Admire, or much less love. I think at first 
Her sweet, sad face, and youthful, gii-lish form, 
Clad in its heavy mourning robes, his heart 
Touched with a tender pity, which soon led 
To the diviner passion that now holds 
The child as far more precious than all else 
The world contains for him. I have no doubt 
They would unsuited be by many thought ; 
'Tis true indeed they'i'e totally unlike ; 
But she supplies to him the sweetness, grace, 
And gayety his nature lacks, while he 
Is what she greatly needs — a counselor, 
A trusty guide, a wise and gentle friend, 
No less than tender lover. So I feel 
She's chosen wisely, and her happiness 
In his hands is secure." 

" I am so glad !" 
Said Constance, as I paused. " The loneliness 



COMPENSATION. 291 

To which her father's sad and sudden death 

Had left her, has before me often come, 

And filled my heart with sorrow for the child. 

I'm glad indeed to learn she's less alone, 

Less sad than I had feared. I might have known 

God would take kindest care of one who had 

But Him to guard and guide ! I am so gladP'' 

" You knew, perhaps, the wealth her father left 
Took wings and flew away a few months since, 
And left her scarce sufficient to supply 
Her simple wants, till he shall take her home 
To whom her troth is plighted. Then she felt 
Her father from the evil days to come 
Most kindly had been taken ; for she knew 
That at his age it had been difiicult 
His fortunes to redeem ; so fancies she 
God's purpose in bereaving her can see, 
And for it loves and trusts Plim all the more. 
She may be right. God unto babes reveals 
The purposes which He from man conceals." 

" Yes ! God is good and wise. I feel its truth 
Each day I live the more. But tell me, dear. 



293 COMPEXSATIOK 

What more than all beside I wish to hear — 

The issue of these months to you. Yon said 

They had done somewhat for you, and I see, 

If I may judge by yon close-written sheets, 

Ambition has at least its wonted seat 

Resumed, and Thought has brought you plenteous 

spoils. 
And by the way, a few days since, when we — • 
My friend and I — were speaking of the past, 
Of you, and all the pleasant days we spent 
Together in the mountains, with a smile. 
He from his pocket-book a folded sheet 
Of paper took, on which I read inscribed. 
The poem which you recollect you wrote 
On that last day we spent beside the lake, 
And he at once appropriated, nor 
Would share it e'en with me. Of course I saw 
As I perused it now, Avhy he had wished 
No eye but his should view it. And he said 
'Twas that, and words you playful spoke that day. 
Which woke him to bis danger, and away 
From that too pleasant spot his laggard feet 
Drove with such haste." 

" I know !" I smiling said. 



COMPENSATION. 393 

" I fully understood why from j'our eyes 
He thus the paper guarded. That he saw 
The danger of the hour, to you, at least, 
If hitherto he had been blind. And so, 
True to his honor, and his plighted faith. 
True to himself, and you, he went away ; 
And now, still true, and free, returns to say 
The words he then withheld, which make to-day 
Your happiness complete." 

" Not quite complete, 
While over your dear face still rests the shade 
Of sadness I had fondly hoped these months 
Had lifted ; " Constance sweetly said. " But still, 
I'm glad if it is lightened somewhat ; while 
I hope the hour will come when joy shall chase 
Each shadow from your heart, and life, and face." 

"Thanks ! though your hope I scarcely share," I said. 
" Hope in ray bosom lies as still and dead 
As on that night through which we watched for dawn. 
I am resigned, or try to be at least. 
To sorrow, and the dearth of happiness 
My life has known and must. I try to lay 
E'en that upon God's altar, as of all 



294 COMPENSA TION. 

The gifts my heart can bring in sacrifice, 

The costliest and most i^recious. When I read 

God's stern rebuke to Israel of old, 

For bringing of the poorest of their flocks 

As otlerings to Him, I asked myself — 

Ah, is it thus with me? Do I withhold 

The best of all that life has giv'n to me, 

And bring Him only what no sacrifice 

It is to offer Him ? Does He require 

I shall yield up my happiness, and joy 

To give Him even that, if such His wish? 

Be glad to suffer loneliness and pain. 

And give Him all the sweetness I from life 

Have so desired and sought ? Be satisfied 

To yield e'en peace, content, and hope to Him 

If such His perfect will ? Is it to this 

He's bringing me by discipline so stern? 

Is this the lesson He would have me learn 

From this long year of pain ? Ah, what indeed 

More precious than my happiness, could I 

Upon the sacrificial altar lay ! 

So, as I said, I'm trying hard to say — 

'Ah, Lord, I bring Thee even that — resigned 

To grief, and loneliness, and dark unrest, 



C03IPEN8ATI0N'. 295 

And deep and constant sadness, if to Thee 
My costly gift acceptable may be/ " 

" A costly gift indeed ! I marvel not 
You find it hard ! " she said. 

" Yes, it is hard. 
I have not yet obtained sufficient grace 
To make it easj'' ; to be glad to give 
All that makes up the beauty of a life, 
Its comfort, or its peace. I have not yet 
The outlook of the mountain summit reached ; 
But I am climbing slowly — slipping back 
Ah, all too often — lying where I fall. 
Hopeless, despairing, with the old hurt wide. 
And freshly bleeding still, until again 
God's patient hand binds up the ojsen wound, 
And lifting, leads me slowly up the mount. 
So, though the months have something done, and 

wrought 
A change effectual in my inner life ; 
Although ambition has returned ; and pain 
Is somev/hat stilled ; though of the hopeless love 
That blest and tortured so my heart and life 
I'm wholly cured at last — " 



296 COMPEySATION. 

" Cured !" she exclaimed, 
With manifest surprise. " Ah, is it so ? 
I had not dared to think e'en years could do 
So much as that for you." 

" Yes, I am cured — 
Cured of the love in one brief hour of time. 
It seems almost a miracle, indeed, 
To me, as I perceive it does to you, 
But notwithstanding it is wholly true. 
In one brief hour it lay before me, dead — 
Killed by his hand who called it into life — 
No more to stir, or to lift up its head 
Against the heart which long had felt its sway. 
The remedy was terribly severe ; 
I had shrank from it, had I known, with fear ; 
But well it did its work, and left me free ; 
Free from the long, intense, unhealthy strain 
It had imposed on heart, and nerves, and brain." 

" And you are glad so to be free ?" 

" Aye, glad ! 
'Twas like a long, and fevered dream, from which. 
Filled though it may have been with fancies sweet 
As well as painful, one is glad to wake ; 



COMPENSATION. 397 

Aye, glad to wake though waking be but pain. 
So Jwas glad to waken from this dream, 
Though 'twas to suffer stings of bitt'rest pain, 
Of sharp humiliation and regret. 
And glad at any cost, at any cost — 
I speak advisedly — to feel ray heart 
Free from the thraldom of a love forbid, 
Which in itself as pure as happier loves. 
Could naught be but a longing unfulfilled — 
A constant, sharp regret no time had stilled." 

"And now 'tis o'er ! it seems indeed to me. 
As you have said, a miracle to be. 
It seemed so great, so powerful, so strong, 
I had not thought that it could die, for long." 

" 'Tvvas strong, indeed ! The stronger, doubtless, too, 

Because of that long peace my heart had known, 

Ere his hand startled it to throbbing life. 

You still remember, do you not, the storm 

) Which raged so terribly that last sad day 

We spent among the mountains — whose results 

So fatal were to Sylvia, and her 

Beloved and loving father ? Do you still 
13* 



298 COMPEXSA TIOX. 

Recall the hush, the deep, oppressive calm 

Which jusl the tempest burst preceded ? So 

It ever is ! the storm that follows calm, 

Doth ever fiercest rage. And thus with me. 

The calm iu which my heart had dwelt so long, 

But added force and fury to the storm 

Of passion, and despair, and bitter pain, 

"Which o'er my clouded soul swift swept, when calm. 

Had turned to raging tempest, and the might 

Of a forbidden love surged through my heart, 

Blighting and ravaging, and leaving there 

Disaster, wreck, and ruin. 'Twas so strong, 

Not any pow'r of will, or deep resolve. 

No effort, prayer, or struggle, had sufficed 

To root it from my heart. No blow less fierce 

Or terrible, no shock less great than that 

It has sustained, could such a work have wrought. 

I cannot tell you, dear — you must not ask 

That I should give you details, for the task 

Would be too great for my still shrinking heart. 

Suffice it that thei'e came an hour when low 

Before me in the dust my idol lay. 

Proved by its fragments made of common clny ; 

When prostrate fell ray boundless trust iu him. 



COMPENSA TION. 299 

My confidence, respect, the high esteem 

In whicli I'd learned to hold him ; when I found 

lie had deceived me sore ; when e'en his love 

I could no more believe in ; when the fair 

Pi'oud structure of my high opinion, formed 

By study of his character and mind, 

Lay with them all in ruins ; while the love, 

So powerful and strong, all dominant. 

And long unconquered, perished with the rest. 

Twas terrible to me at one fell blow 

To have all I'd believed in, trusted, loved. 

Esteemed, and honored, stricken from ray life ; 

It had been worse if love had still survived 

The death of^confidence and of esteem. 

Twas terrible to thus be wounded sore. 

By that same hand which had so late caressed ; 

To feel that he whom I had trusted so. 

So honored, and so loved, could give a blow 

Whose force had cut me to the very heart. 

Yet not in this the sharpest pang lay hid. 

The bitt'rest thought was his unworthiness ; 

The sharpest sting lay in the fact that he 

Had fallen from the high estate in which 

I had been glad to hold him ; that where I 



300 COMPENSA TWN. 

Had deemed him strong, events had proved hira weak ; 

That virtues I'd admired were but assumed ; 

And that not e'en to honor him was left. 

No wonder I was staggered by the shock ! 

No wonder that it needed all my faith 

In God, and in humanity, to keep 

From doubting all, since faith in him was dead ! 

Were he not true, ah ! who but must be false ? 

Were he unkind, who but was cruel too ? 

Could he betray, ah ! whom, whom could I trust ? 

Were he so weak, where should I look for strength ? 

And if he loved me not, whose love was true ? 

Thus cut adrift from all I'd honored, loved, 

And trusted with unwav'ring faith, 'twas sure 

No marvel that awhile I felt afloat 

On a wide sea of doubt, where I could find 

No safe or peaceful harbor for my mind." 

" No wonder was it, truly !" Constance said. 
" But I'm bewildered, dear ; I cannot think 
What blow that he could give could cut so deep, 
So lastingly affect. What he could say 
To you — what do — that could have wounded thus ? 
Forgive me — I'm not curious — I would 



COMPENSATION. 301 

Not have you tell me auglit you would reserve ; 
But I quite fail to understand how he 
Could thus have killed, in one brief hour, the love 
I know so strong till then." 

Thus Constance said, 
And I replied : " No word, no act of his, 
In any hour which we together spent 
In personal companionship, but spoke 
Most plainly of the high respect, esteem. 
And honor which he bore me. Never once 
Was there to me aught said I could condemn. 
Could censure or regret. Naught but gave proof 
Of delicate regard, affection pure. 
Had it been otherwise, he had not won 
Or held the deep devotion of my heart 
Which had for months been his ; I had not found 
All efforts impotent to drive him forth 
From that deep sanctuary he had gained 
By unremitting kindness and respect. 
No ! it was through another hand than his, 
The blow he gave me reached and struck my heart. 
Words he had spoken, pressed by circumstance ; 
Acts prompted by the moment's stern demands, 
Repeated, nothing lost in cutting force. 



303 COMPENSA TIOK 

But fell with direful strength upon my heart, 

Eacli one a lafsh that stung. The fatal ease, 

Tlie shrinking from unpleasantness, which was 

His nature's greatest weakness, was the base 

Of all the cruel wrong. To hide his love — 

From others, not from me — he stooped to wear 

The hateful mask of double-dealing, donned 

As circumstance required. — He did not know 

That was the one thing I could not o'erlook 

In lover, or in friend. — To spare himself 

I had been sacrificed, while me to shield 

Had seemed his only thought. To spare his friend 

He had defended, e'en at truth's expense, 

A confidence which, had he been as true 

To me as him, he had not thus withheld. 

And with mistaken honor, when with these 

Stern facts confronted, opened not his lips 

For any word of self-defense, which should 

On him, his friend, reflect. 

" I shall not soon 
Forget that hour when we stood face to face, 
Who had that morning met, and parted too, 
With wonted kindness, while I told him all, 
And vainly hoped that he would speak some word 



COMPENSA TIOK 303 

Which should restore him to the lofty place 

He had so lately held in my esteem. 

His face was ashen white, and deeply lined ; 

One would have thought ten years of ageing time 

Had to his life been added since the morn. 

But as I said, he uttered no defense ; 

And but assured me of the higli regard 

In which he held me still, and ever should ; 

Protested he had failed in no respect 

To me, in thought and in intent, at least ; 

And added, as he turned his face aside : 

* I might have known an ending such as this 

Our friendship must have had !' He might have 

known, 
When stooping to deceive, the day must come 
When I should know, and knowing it, resent, 
Whate'er had been his motive or intent. 

"If real love survives e'en shocks like this, 
Mine was not real love. My loves are built 
On firm foundation of respect, esteem, 
And confidence unshaken by a breath. 
Kill these, and love lies dead beside them. So 
Lay 7ny dead love that bitter, fateful day, 



304 COMPENSA TION. 

Begun in promise, ended in dismay. 

Yes, all was ended now, foi'evermore ! 

The hope, the fear, the longing deep and sore, 

The ache of heart, the sharp, fierce, constant pain ; 

Tlie bitter anguish of a patience vain ; 

But oh, the desolation that it left ! 

The emptiness, the hopelessness ; tlie strong 

And ever clamorous regret for what 

My life had missed and never could obtain ; 

The loneliness of heart ; the blankness which 

The future seemed enwrapped with ; and a sense 

Of all the love had cost me, in content, 

And peace, and happiness, forever spent. 

" My cup was full, e'en to the fretted brim, 
With bitt'rest rue. I felt the last drop now 
Which it could bear was added, and that life 
Could pour no more within it. Pride, I said, 
Is surely dead at last, and so can need 
No other blow like this ; it can no more 
Lift up its hydra-head beneath a shock 
Which by its force strikes to the very springs 
Of Pride's tenfold existence. To the dust 
In deep humiliation I was bowed, 



COMPENSATION 805 

And felt that I could never rise agaiu 
To confidence in any liuman love, 
Or pride in the position I had gained 
By years of constant labor." 

" Oh, my friend, 
I know not how you bore it all, and lived !" 
Said Constance, while the swift tears fell from eyes 
Suffused with tenderness. " Or why your heart, 
Which had already borne so much, broke not 
Beneath the added burden." 

"Ah, ray dear, 
Hearts do not break so easily, and mine 
Is, as I told you, made of sterner stuff." 
So I replied. " 'Tis true indeed, awhile 
I sank beneath the burden ; turned my face 
Unto the wall, nor would be comforted. 
Awhile I turned from all, distrusted all, 
Since he had proved untrue, unkind to me. 
Each prop on which I'd leaned seemed stricken from 
Beneath me ; every hope dead utterly 
Past all resuscitation. In all this 
The only compensation that I found, 
Was in the fact that love was dead as well. 
For this ere long I proved to be the truth. 



306 COMPENSATION. 

My heart long turbiilont was quiet now ; 
Its deep unrest, and constant longing stilled ; 
Its sick'ning pain and passion almost spent. 
Tlie long, long strain was o'er ; and this indeed 
Was something to rejoice at, though the blank 
It left was terrible, and grew more deep, 
As from the fearful shock I rallied slow, 
And slow regained, in some degree at least, 
As months sped on, my health and tone of mind. 
Within a maze, or labyrinth, it seemed 
To me my feet bad been entangled long, 
From which I saw no method of escape, 
Till God Himself the tangling cords had cut. 
And left me free at last. Yes, I was sure 
His hand was in it all. I knew so well 
My constant heart's tenacious hold upon 
The love it once had cherished, that I knew 
There was no hope of my escape for long 
From all the anguish which this love involved. 
So when I found that I was freed at last, 
I felt no hand but God's had wrought a work 
Which mine had proved so pow'rless to effect 
Through many months of strife." 

" A work that's wrought 



COMPENSATION. 307 

So perfectly, the love ne'er stirs witli e'en 
A semblance of the life it once had owned ?" 
Asked Constance then. 

"As perfectly as that," 
I answered. "For awhile I felt for him 
Who had been dear, naught save contempt ; and love 
Can ne'er with that abide. Awhile I thought 
But of the stab that pierced me to the heart, 
And the relief it was to be so free 
From all the pain and longing of the past. 
But as the months sped slowly, and my mind 
Regained its tone and balance, I began 
To feel less sti-ongly, see more clearly too, 
And judge more justly, till I came to feel 
At times most kindly toward him ; to wish 
For reconciliation with the friend 
Who as a friend I thought might yet be dear. 
Yet, still the love stirred not. Instead, when back 
Upon my heart the memory would rush, 
Of all the confidence, and love, and trust, 
I gave him, and the base return he made ; 
Of all the agony I for his sake 
Had in the past endured, I felt that ne'er 
Could I his hand in friendship take again ; 



308 COJIPEIs SA TlOy. 

And that for us ihere could not henceforth be 

Aught but estrangement and indifference. 

But time still sped, and wrought its changes deep. 

'Tis difficult resentment long to keep 

Tow'rd one for whom you daily ask good gifts 

Of God, the gen'rous giver. So I found 

Resentment melting, like the dew of morn 

Beneath the sun's warm glory. So, ere long, 

Tlie sad estrangement came to hurt me sore — 

A hurt that deeper grew each jjassing day. 

While as my mind regained its health, the blank 

The love in dying left, the loneliness, 

The deep heart-sadness grew yet more intense, 

Instead of lessening with passing time. 

The injury he did me when he won 

The love he had no right to wish or seek, 

Is irreparable. I do not think 

I ever can regain the place I lost, 

When I, for love of him, my peace of mind, 

Content, and hope, and happiness resigned." 

"And this was he," said Constance, when a pause 
Of thoughtfulness succeeded to the words 
I last had s^Dokeu, " who ere this you'd thought 



COMPENSATION. 309 

Impersonated all the virtues wliich 

In man you most admired, and joyed to find 

Embodied in his character and mind !" 

" Yes, this was he ! he who to me bad seemed 
My other self — my nature's complement ; 
He to wbose heart mine bad responsive beat ; 
Whose face bad ever softened 'neatb my glance ; 
In whose dimmed eyes I'd read a hundred times 
A love that spurned control ; in whom I'd found 
A deptb of sensibility most rare ; 
A sympathy and kindness which had ne'er 
In any instance failed to give response 
To such demands as I had on it made. 
In all our intercourse naught had there been 
But had appealed to all the better part 
Gf bis man's nature ; but had touched the springs 
Of all that in it high and noble was. 
And that was bow, perhaps, I came to form 
So high an estimate of bim — because 
He ever showed his fairest side to me. 
I look back now, and see bow skillfully. 
With what fond wiles he won my willing love. 
In all our intercourse, as friends — or more. 



310 COMPENSATION. 

No -word unkind, unflattering, or cold, 

E'er crossed bis lips to me, e'en though in jest. 

Others might feel the shafts of satire, flung 

Forth from his brilliant wit, and ready tongue, 

But never I. Kind, tender, deferent. 

And gen'rous ever be to me bad proved — 

What wonder I believed in him — and loved ! " 

" It loas no wonder, darling, I am sure ! 
Nor can I but believe be loved you well, 
Although his conduct, as to you portrayed, 
Might argue otherwise." 

From Constance this ; 
And I to her replied : " At all events, 
I bad not cared for him until I thought 
I had, though all unknowing, won his heart. 
Perhaps that was of his design a part 
If it is true he with delib'rate art 
Sought so to win me. I have thought, sometimes. 
He saw the fire which smold'ring lay beneath 
The outward calm and coolness, and perhaps 
Desirous felt to ovvn the conscious power 
To fan it to a flame and learn its strength. 
It pleased and flattered him, no donbt^ to know 



COMPELS A TION. 31 1 

His touch, or word, or glance, could send the flames 

High leaping in their pow'r ; to know the heart, 

So cold to most, in every beat to his 

Gave jDcrfect aud spontaneous response. 

So if be loved me not, I must believe ' 

He sought to touch the deep springs of my soul, 

To win a love whose power he had guessed, 

From vain and selfish motives — to amus'^ 

And speed the passing hour. I know, indeed, 

An imputation such as this he would 

Resent with indignation ; and I feel 

He gave me in those days too many pi'oofs 

Qf strong affection, and deep earnestness. 

To make it possible that all was feigned. 

So, weighing all the past impartially, 

And at this interval of time, I must 

Believe the passion that I thought he felt. 

Existed just as truly in his heart 

As did ray love in mine." 

" You speak as though 
Some time had jjassed since this dark trial came 
Of which you just have told me — which has wrought 
So marvelous a change within your heart. 
Is that the case ? " asked Constance. 



ai3 COMPENSATION. 

" Yes ! " I said. 
" Eight months, or nearly that. On my return 
Last Autumn from the mountains, I was pleased 
To find him home ; and once or twice we met 
With all the olden pleasure, mixed with sharp 
And unavailing pangs of pain, regret, 
And longing, ere the storm-cloud burst that laid 
My love and faith in ruins. Then again 
He went away ; and from that bitter night, 
Six months passed by, in which I saw him not ; 
And from him heard no word which should reveal 
If he were grieved, or glad, at what had been 
A trial long and terrible to me. 
And then he wrote, expressing deep regret 
For all the past, which he would fain, he said, 
Forever bury from his sight — and mine. 
Forgiveness craving for whate'er had hurt 
Or angered me, while claiming, in his heart 
No such intent had ever found a place. 
And certain points explaining, which in part 
The aspect of his conduct changed, and showed 
That he had erred from a mistaken sense 
Of honor, often, rather than intent 
To be to me ungen'rous or unkind. 



COMPENSATION. 313 

Assured me of unchanged regard, respect, 
And interest unfailing ; hoping soon 
To meet me face to face, and in ray eyes 
Read the forgiveness he should truly prize. 

" Of course this letter aided to dispel 

The mists of a resentment which ere this 

Was slowly vanishing. For in these months 

Which had elapsed since that eventful day 

In which he fell so low in my esteem. 

As I have said, I'd slowly come to weigh 

More justly all the circumstances, all 

The strong, impelling forces, acting on 

A gentle, yielding nature, with results 

So deeply fatal ; while I understand 

More perfectly than any other could. 

The pressure brought to bear upon his life, 

In those strange days ere came our parting sad, 

Of which I told you on that summer night 

Whose morn still found us wakeful. I can see 

Just where he erred, both to himself and me ; 

Just how another course had brought results 

So widely different, and kept my faith 

And confidence intact. 'Twas natural 
14 



314 COMPENSATION. 

Awhile I naught should feel except the blow 

His hand had dealt rae ; nothing see except 

The baseness of his conduct ; but I've come 

To judge with greater leniency one whom 

I had so closely studied ; in the main 

The estimate then formed believing still 

One which was quite correct. 'Tis true, indeed, 

In some points it has failed ; the strength I'd thought 

His nature held in some directions, proved, 

When tested, only weakness ; yet again 

In other points I've found him stronger yet 

Than I had fancied. That his nature is 

In fact a rarely sweet one, holding no 

Resentments ever ; from all evil speech 

His tongue close guarding ; capable as well 

Of self-control that's marvelous indeed, 

I've often to my satisfaction proved — 

Rare gifts, and lovely, wheresoever found ! 

So while I do not, cannot e'er forget 

The poor return he made for all my love, 

And boundless trust, I do not therefore think 

There is no good in him ; or that although 

He's failed in some, in all things he's untrue. 

*To err is human, to forgive divine.' 



COMPENSATION. 315 

He's proved that lie is liumau ; and since he 

Ilis wrong confesses, and regrets, and craves 

Therefor forgiveness, I'm, I trust, divine 

Enough to grant it freely. I believe 

No man that lives is capable of quite 

Appreciating woman's love, in all 

Its wonderful intensity and depth ; 

That none is fully worthy of the boon. 

I know as well, that I expect too much 

Of such as please me, and too oft forget 

That since I cannot even make myself 

What I would wish, I should not think to find 

Another wholly to my liking. So, 

Since in so many points he pleases me, 

And as a friend is more congenial far 

Than many that I meet ; since no one has 

A character devoid of trifling flaws, 

I'm satisfied to take him as my friend, 

With all the faults I know, but cannot mend.'* 

" A friend, who was a lover ?" Constance asked. 
" I've heard that ' friendship often turns to love, 
But love to friendship, never !' " 

"It is rare, 



316 COMPENSATION. 

I know," I answered. " I myself had thought 

It could not ever.be ; but I have proved 

E'en that is possible. Experience 

Has taught me many things the j^ast sad year, 

Which I before had doubted. Still, 'tis true 

He can to me be never quite the same 

As though within my heart he had not dwelt 

For many months, a loved and lionored guest ; 

As though I never in his face had read 

The love I gave, returned. Ere that could be, 

With all the rest must perish memory." 

"Yet you no more regret him?" asked the girl. 

"No — no — no more ! him, as I know him now ! 
Him, as I once believed him, even yet ! 
The real man never ! the ideal oft. 
With deep, sore longing naught can still or check ! 
There have been hours when I had giv'n the world 
Had it been mine, to have him at my side. 
The man I once believed him, gen'rous, true, 
Kind-hearted, tender ; in his soul no thought 
I might not I'ead ; no blot upon the past ; 
No shadow dark between. For thou2;h 'lis true 



COMPENSATION. 317 

I've learned tliat tliere were circumstances which 

Extenuate in some degree his acts; 

That he has many traits of goodness ; still, 

The fact of his duplicity remains, 

And all the mera'ry of the dead past stains. 

And through the present trails its serpent coils. 

Each kindly action wrapping in its toils." 

"Then you have met again since that dark hour 
In which you paried ? " Constance asked. 

"Since then 
I face to face have stood with him again. 
And looking in his eyes have seen therein 
The olden light of tenderness ; have felt 
The gentle pressure of his warm, firm hand 
AVhose touch is so familiar ; and my heart 
Beat quietly, obedient to my will, 
Nor stirred again with that impassioned thrill 
Which once his lightest touch had wakened. Still, 
But for the shadow of distrust which throws 
Its darkness so between us, and the strong 
Restraint I on my heart imposed, I'd felt 
Perchance the tender charm which lately dwelt 
In glance, and smile, and tone, and clinging clasp 



318 COMPENSATION. 

Of pulsing palm, and all the subtle power 
Of deep, magnetic harmony, which won, 
And bound, and held me," 

" Yet you think," she said, 
"The passion you once felt is now so dead. 
That were you thrown together as beforcj 
And he, as then, exerted all his power 
The love to win he knew had once been his, 
'Twould not avail ? " 

"Ah child, how can I tell ? 
The human heart deceitful is, I've proved. 
And strangely contradictor}^ And mine 
I know is but too constant to, the loves 
It once has felt ; while doubtless what in him 
Then pleased me, would be charming to me still. 
So though I think the love for him which once 
So potent proved, is dead, I cannot say 
With certainty what might be. I have learned 
That my own heart is still a half-read book ; 
And that I cannot tell what further leaves 
When turned, may yet unfold. But this I know: 
If we were thrown together as before, 
And o'er my heart I felt the influence creep 
I once had found so powerful and so deep, 



COMPENSATION. 319 

I'd fight against it with my utmost strength ; 

Each fond advance resist ; his presence shun ; 

And shut him even from ray lightest thought. 

And if the love, in spite of all, still came, 

I then would hold myself quite free from blame, 

However I might rue it, grieve, regret. 

And more than this : If one I could approve 

In every way ; one free to win my love, 

Were earnestly to seek it, I'd resist 

All love's approaches with as great a care. 

As though his hand had laid the tender snare. 

Too terrible I've found love's cost to be, 

To lightly dare again its mastery. 

Nor do I think my often wounded heart 

Could feel again in any man, the trust 

That is affection's root. I know, indeed, 

There are true men, who true in love may prove ; 

But such are not for me — I'm done with love.'' 

" Ah, darling," Constance said in trembling tones, 
" When love from life is stricken, what remains 
To give it worth and beauty ? " 

" Little, dear, 
To give it sweetness, iv\x\y ! " I replied. 



320 COMPENSATION. 

"To me remains ambition — which indeed, 

Is compensation poor to woman's heart, 

For'what it misses, craves, and needs of love — 

Life's work to still fulfill as best I can ; 

To toil with falt'ring feet along the path 

Which to tlie gates of pearl still upward leads ; 

And climbing, to give succor as I may. 

To those whose steps along the rugged way 

Are e'en less firm than mine ; and for the end, 

To wait as patiently as I may gain 

The strength to do, from trial and from pain." 

" Oh love, you fill my heart with sadness deep ! 
And now beside me close the sweet girl knelt, 
In that fond attitude she used to love — 
Her arm around me clasped, her soft cheek laid 
Upon my knee, her full eyes on my face : 
"I cannot bear to think, while God to me 
Has giv'n so much, who so unworthy am 
Of such great joy, to you He still denies 
The happiness you all your life have missed. 
It breaks ray heart to think, while I am glad, 
That you, my darling, still are lone and sad." 



COMPENSATION. 321 

My eyes o'erflowed with sudden tears, as low 

I bent, and kissed the gii-1 with trembling lips, 

And for a time responded not ; and then 

I backward pressed the burning drops of woe. 

And smiling faintly, answered : " Constance, no ! 

That must not be ! Be glad in your deep joy ; 

Nor let my sadness add one drop of rue 

To your full cup of wine. Of what avail 

To let my grief your pleasure dim, since you 

Are powei-less to heal the hurt you rue ! 

You know the good old hymn that runs like this : 

' Good when He gives — supremely good ! nor less 

When He chines P To you, in giving, God 

Indeed is good. He, in denying me, 

No less so doubtless is. And tliough, indeed, 

I find it hard to always be content 

With that denial which He sees is wise. 

And long as greatly for the happiness 

Which He withholds, as though I were not sure 

He hnoioeth best, the fact remains the same — 

That He is wise, and good, and what is best 

Gives you, and rae, and ail. One who is sick 

Believes the skilled physician, who prescribes 

The nauseous potion, knows just what to give 
14* 



333 C0MPEN8ATI0K 

That shall avail to work the cure lie seeks : 
So drinks submissively ; yet finds the draught 
No less the bitter, and with wry face quaffs 
The cuj) his hand presents. So I believe 
God gives to each just what is best for each. 
So with submission drink the draught which He 
In wisdom mixes ; but I find it still 
3Iost bitter to the taste. Be thankful, dear, 
To you He pours out happiness, and drink 
It wisely, gratefully, lest He recall 
The precious gift, or cause it on your lips 
To turn to poison." 

" May God give me grace 
So to accept, and drink !" with rev'rence grave 
She answered. " But I shall not cease to pi'ay 
He will to you be gracious, and bestow 
The boon your heart desires. I cannot know 
That you are sorrowful, and still be quite 
Content and happy, even in the love 
Which blesses so my life. And since you drink 
Submissively the potion He pours out, 
I must believe it shall a perfect cure 
At length work out for you." 

" It shall, perhaps," 



COMPENSATION. 323 

I answered, " when ' life's fitful fever ' has 
Its long course run, and stilled the weary heart 
So human in its longings, hopes, desires. 
That while still flame the fev'rish, leaping fires 
Of human life, it cannot find repose. 
When to the life divine at last it goes, 
The cui'e shall be perfected, and no more 
Shall know of pain, regret, or longing sore." 

A brief pause on the converse fell, the while 
The girl beside me showed her S3'mpathy 
Most sweetly by her tears. And then she asked : 
* And have you then quite perfectly, at last, 
The problem solved which vexed you so before — 
What is the purpose of this long, sharp pain. 
The sore temptation which you felt so vain ? " 

" Ah no ! not perfectly. 'Tis still to me 
A question vexed ; nor shall be solved, I feai', 
Till God himself shall make the answer clear. 
I've somewhere read ' If one aspires to be 
A son of consolation, one must pay 
The costly price of education meet.' 
Perchance He saw that mine was incomplete, 



334 COMPENSA Tl OK 

And I unfitted to perform some task 

lie sliall ere long require me to fulfill. 

I've also read — and know, ' experience 

Of strong temptation fits the heart to feel 

For others who are tried ; to give such aid 

And sympathy as may be needed.' So 

Christ ran the gantlet of our human life, 

E'en from the cradle to the grave, His pure 

And sacred shoulders baring to the blows 

Which through the bitter race thereon were show'red, 

That He might know, from having felt them all, 

The trials and temptations which on us 

So thickly crowd, and knowing, be prepared 

To sympathize and save. 

" But, ignorant 
What life's demands shall in the future be, 
Wliat stern, sad work God shall require of me, 
For wliich He has the past long, weary year 
Been educating me by trial strong. 
And fierce temptation, and o'er-mast'ring pain. 
To perfectly perform, I cannot solve 
As yet to satisfaction, what so long 
Has puzzled me — the mission of it all, 
Although I add, subtract, and multiply, 



compensation: 325 

And o'er and o'er repeat the process vain. 
Since effort brings but failure, in His hands — 
The wise and loving Teacher who the task 
Has set — I try to give it now, assured 
He can the problem solve, work out the sura, 
And prove the answer true. He can as well, 
If so it please Him — yonder, if not here — 
Restore the peace and restfulness I lost 
When on the waves of human longing tost, 
I ceased to feel God's love is dearest, best. 
And in that love, content, to sweetly rest." 



The day waned swiftly, and the evening came. 
Soft, fragrant, pure — all streaming violet flame. 
And rosy mist, and amber effluence. 
And flower-balm and beauty. 

Then she went — 
This dear, sweet girl ! her eyes soft with content, 
Her red lips smiling with a joy which shed 
Its sweetness through each pulse, whose throbbing tide 
Was by her pure and tender heart supplied. 

And as she went, I smiled — to see her glad I 



326 COMPENSATION. 

And as she went, I sighed — at heart so sad 
She, going, left rae ! Glad and sad, I said — 
" To her 'tis giv'n to grasp — me to resign ; 
Mine is the draught of rue, and hers the wine ; 
May He who pours them both make good to me 
The balance — here, or in eternity ! " 



FINIS. 



1880. 




1880. 



NEW BOOKS 

AND NEW EDITIONS, 



RECENTLY ISSUED BY 




Gr. W.CARLETON&Ca,Pubiisliers, 

Madison Square, ITew York. 

The Publishers, on receipt of price, will send any book on ;his Catalogue by Ta3.\\.fosia^e/rec 

All books [unless otherwise specified] are handsomely bound in cloth, with gilt backs 
suitable for libraries. 

Mary J. Holmes^ "Works. 



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Charles Dickens— 15 Vols.—" Carleton's Edition." 

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1 50 

2 CO 
2 00 
I 50 
I 50 

25 
I 50 

I 5° 
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All For Him— By All For Her.... 

For Each Other— Do 

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Innocents Irom Abroad 

Flirtation — A West Point novel 

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That Bridget of Ours 

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Hilt to Hilt. Do 

Out of the Foam. Do 

Hammer and Rapier.Do 

Warwick— By M. T.Walworth 

Lulu. Do 

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Seen and Unseen 

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Heart Hungry-M.J.Westmoreland 

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John Maribel. Do 

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Undercurrents of Wall St. Do... 
Romance of Student Life. Do... 
To-Day. Do... 
Life in San Domingo. Do... 
Henry Powers, Banker. Do... 
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Mrs. Mary J. Holmes' Works. 



TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE. 

ENGLISH ORPHANS. 

HOMESTEAD ON HILLSIDE. 

'LENA RIVERS. 

MEADOW BROOK. 

DORA DEANE. 

COUSIN MAUDE. 

MARIAN GREY. 

EDITH LYLE. 

DAISY THORNTON. (New). 



DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT, 

HUGH WORTHINGTON. 

CAMERON PRIDE. 

ROSE MATHER. 

ETHELYN'S MISTAKE. 

INULLBANK. 

EDNA BROWNING. 

WEST LAWN. 

MILDRED. 

FORREST HOUSE. (New). ' 



OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 

"Mrs. Holmes' stories are universally read. Her admirers are numberless. 
She is in many respects without a rival in the world of fiction. Her characters are 
always life-like, and she makes them talk and act like human beings, subject to the 
same emotions, swayed by the same passions, and actuated by the same motives 
which are common among men and women of every day existence. Mrs. Holmes 
is very happy in portraying domestic life. Old and young peruse her stories 
with great delight, for she writes in a stj'le that all can comprehend." — New 
York Weekly. 

The North American Review, vol. 8i, page 557, says of Mrs. Mary J. 
Holmes' novel, "English Orphans": — "With this novel of Mrs. Holmes' we have 
been charmed, and so have a pretty numerous circle of discriminating readers to 
whom we have lent it. The characterization is exquisite, especially so far as 
concerns rural and vill.ige life, of which there are some pictures that deserve to 
be hung up in pei-petual memory of types of humanity fast becoming extinct. The 
dialogues are generally brief, pointed, and appropriate. The plot seems .simple, 
so easily and naturally is it developed and consummated. Moreover, the story 
thus gracefully constructed and written, inculcates without obtruding, not only 
pure Christian morality in general, bu% with especial point and power, the depen- 
dence of true success on character, and of true respectability on merit." 

"Mrs. Holmes' stories are ail of a domestic character, and their interest, there- 
fore, is not so intense as if they were more highly seasoned with sensationalism, 
but it is of a healthy and abiding character. Almost any new book which her 
publisher might choose to announce from her pen would get an immediate and 
general readrng. The interest in her tales begins at once, and is maintained to 
the close. Her sentiments are so sound, her sympathies so warm and ready, 
and her knowledge of manners, character, and the varied incidents of ordinary 
life is so thorough, that she would find it difficult to write any other than an 
excellent talo if she were to try it." — Boston Banner. 



^W" The volumes are all handsomely printed and bound in cloth, sold every- 
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I 

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The volumes already published are as folloics:— 

Thrown on the World. — A Novel by Bertha M. Clay, 
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Nick WhifSes. — A Novel by Dr. J. H. Robinson. 
Lady Leonora. — A Novel by Carrie Conklin. 

Charity Grinder Papers A Humorous Work. 

A Bitter Atonement. — A Novel by Bertha M. Clay. 

Curse of Everleigh A Novel by Ellen Corwin Pierce. 

Love Works V/onders A Novel by Bertha M. Clay. 

Evelyn's Folly.— A Novel by Bertha M. Clay. 



A Wonderful J^cw Book, Just JPitblishecl, 



CARLETON'S 

HOUSEHOLD ENCYCLOPAEDIA 

AND 

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CARLETON'S HAND-BOOK 

POPULAR QUOTATIONS. 

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If you want io find any Familiar Quotation, appropriate to any 
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I. — The Art of Conversation, 

With Directions for Self-Culture. An admirably conceived and entertaining worS sen 
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good talker or listener, or who v/ishes to appear to advimtage in good society. Evur^ J.onilg 
nrd ev'-n old person should read it, study it over and over again, and follow those hiutein 
it which lead them to break up bad habits and cultivate good ones. ♦»* Price, f 1. 
Among the contents will be found chapters upon — 

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II.— Tlse Ilsxbits .of Oood Society. 

A Hand-book for Ladies and Gentlemen. With thoughts, hints, and anecdotes concern- 
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ments, remarks on fa.«hion, etc. *^* Price, $1 Among the contents will be found 
chapters upon — 

Gentlemen's Preface. 
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Thoughts on Society. 
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The Dressing Room. 
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Feminine AocoMruiSHMENTS. 
Manners and Habits. 
Public and Private Etiquette. 
Married and Unmarried Ladies. 
Do Do Gentlemen. 

Calling Etiquette.— Cards. 
Visiting Etiquettb. — Dinners. 



Ladies at Dinner. 
Dinner Tiabits. — Carving. 
Manners at Supper.— Balls. 
Morning Parties. — I'icNics. 
Evening Parties. — Dances. 
Private Theatricals. 
Receptions. — Engagements. 
Marriage Ceremonies. 
Invitations. — Dresses. 
Bridesmaids. — Presents. 
Traveling Etiquette. 
Public Promenade. 
Country Visits.— City Visits. 



III. — Arts of ^Vriting:, Reading, and Speaking. 

A fascinating work for teaching and perfecting every one in these three most desirable 
accomplishments. For youth this book is both interestin.g and valurble; and for adults, 
whether professionally or socially, it is a book that they cannot disijense with. Price, 
$1. Among the contents will be found chapters upon — 

Beading and Thinking. — Language. — What not to Say. — How to Begin. — 
Words, Sentences, and Construction.- Cautions. -Delivery.-Writing a Speech. 
What to Avoid. — Letter Writing. — ^FiitsT Lessons. — Public Speakinc -Dh 
Pronunciation. — Expression. — Tone. — livery. — Action. — Oratoky oy the Fxl 
Religious Readings. — The Bible. — pit. — Composition. — The Bar.-Kkakxo 
Peayees. — Dramatic Readings. — Oba- of Wit and Humor. — The Plattobii:.— 
TORY and Speaking. — What to Say. — Construction of a Speech. 

These works are the most perfect of their kind ever published ; fresh, seTisible, good 
tumcred. entertairUng , and readable. Every person of taste should possess Ihsm, and 
oanr,<>l 6e otherwise than delighted with them. 

|JP"" A beautiful new minaturo edition of these very i)opular books has jnst beer r al>- 
;lshed, entitled " The Diamond Edition," three little volumes, elegantly printed 02 j 
tinted paper, and handsomely bound in a box. Price, $3.00. • 

•^* Theae books are ieautifully printed, bound and sent by mail, postage ftet, cm I 
ittoeipt of pnoe. j 

G. W. CAELETON & CO., Publishers, New York. 



CHARLES DICKENS' WORKS. 

A NEW %JLJC> edition. 

Among the many editions of the worlds of this greatest of 
English Novelists, there has not been until jw7a one that entirel}'- 
satisfies the public demand. — Without exception, the}'- each have 
some strong distinctive objection, — either the form and dimen- 
sions of the volumes are unhand}' — or, the t)rpe is small and 
indistinct — or, the illustrations are unsatisfactory — or, the bind- 
ing is poor — or, the price is too high. 

An entire!}' new edition is no7a, however, published by G. W. 
Carleton & Co., of New York, which, in every respect, com- 
pletely satisfies the popular demand. — It is known as 

"Carletou's New Illustrated Edition." 

Complete in 15 Volumes. 

The size and form is most convenient for holding, — the type is 
entirel}' new, and of a clear and open character that has received 
the approval of the reading community in other works. 

The illustrations are by the original artists chosen by Charles 
Dickens himself — and the paper, printing, and binding are of an 
attractive and substantial character. 

This beautiful new edition is complete in 15 volumes — at the 
extremely reasonable price of $1.50 per volume, as follows : — 



— PICKWICK PAPERS AND CATALOGUE. 

— OLIVER TWIST. — UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELLER. 

— DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

— GREAT EXPECTATIONS. — ITALY AND AMERICA. 

— DOMBEY AND SON. 

— BARNABY RUDGE AND EDWIN DROOD. 

— NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 

— CURIOSITY SHOP AND MISCELLANEOUS. 

— BLEAK HOUSE. 

— LITTLE DORRIT. 

— MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 

— OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 

— CHRISTMAS BOOKS. ^T ALE OF TWO CITIES. 

— SKETCHES BY BOZ AND HARD TIMES. 

— CHUD's ENGLAND AND MISCELLANEOUS. 



The first volume — Pickwick Papers — contains an alphabetical 
catalogue of all of Charles Dickens' writings, with their exact 
positions in the volumes. 

This edition is sold by Booksellers, everywhere — and single 
specimen copies will be forwarded by mail, J>osiage free, on re- 
ceipt of price, $1.50, by 

G. W. CARLETON & €0., Publishers, 

Madison Square, New York. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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